Weird Tales v21n04 (1933 04)

“PSYCHIANA”

( The New Psychological Religion )

A new and revolutionary religious teaching based entirely on the misunderstood sayings of the
Galilean Carpenter, and designed to show how to find and use the
same identical power that He used.

“PSYCHIANA”

• Believes and Teaches as Follows:

FIRST— That there is in this Universe an UNSEEN OM-
NIPOTENT GOD LAW so POTENT and DYNAMIC that
its contemplation seems to STAGGER our imagination
—yet so SIMPLE and UNDERSTANDABLE that all
who will may GRASP and USE this MIGHTY POWER
EVERY DAY and EVERY HOUR.

SECOND— That this INVISIBLE DYNAMIC POWER Is
the self-same POWER that Jesus used over 2,000 years
ago when he held the MULTITUDES SPEECHLESS
with his POWER to “Heal the Sick, Cleanse the Leper,
Raise the Dead.”

THIRD — That the so-called MIRACLES performed by the
humble NAZARENE were NOT THE RESULT of any
Supernatural power but WERE THE RESULT of a
DIVINELY NATURAL POWER which on account of its
VERY SIMPLICITY was entirely misunderstood by the
listeners of Christ’s day and by those who PROFESS
TO FOLLOW HIM TODAY.

FRANK R. ROBINSON, D. D.

Founder of “Psychiana.” Author
of “America Awakening” — “ The
Cod Nobody Knows," etc.

Dr. Frank B. Robinson

one of the keenest psychological minds this country has ever produced, and one of the most earnest
intense searchers into the spiritual realm believes, after years of experimentation and research, that
there is in this world today, an UNSEEN power or force, so dynamic in itself, that all other powers or
forces FAt>E INTO INSIGNIFICANCE BESIDE IT. He believes that this power of force is THE VERY
SAME POWER THAT JESUS USED. He believes further that the entire world, including the present
church structure, MISSED IN ITS ENTIRETY the message that He came to bring. He believes that

The world is on the verge of the most stupendous spiritual upheaval it has ever experienced.

FOURTH— That Jesus had NO MONOPOLY on this
POWER but that it is possible for anyone who under-
stands this SPIRITUAL LAW as the GALILEAN CAR-
PENTER understood it to duplicate EVERY WORK
that He did and that when He said “the things that I
do shall YB DO also” He meant EXACTLY what He
said, and meant it to apply LITERALLY to ALL MAN-
KIND throughout ALL TIME.

FIFTH — That when rightly understood and correctly used
THIS MIGHTY POWER NEVER FAILS to bring
ABUNDANT HEALTH— RADIANT HAPPINESS and
OVERWHELMING SUCCESS.

FREE . . . FREE . . . FREE

Every reader of this magazine Is cordially invited to write “PSYCHIANA” for more details of this
revolutionary teaching which might very easily be discussed the ENTIRE WORLD ROUND. Dr. Robin-
son will tell you something of his years of search for the truth as he KNEW it must exist, and will
give you a few facts connected with the founding of “PSYCHIANA.” NO OBLIGATIONS WHATSO-
EVER. Sign your name and address here.

w. T.

Name

Street and Number ' .. _

City

Send this to “Psychiana,” Moscow, Idaho.

W. T.— 1

401

Cover Design J. Allen St. John

Illustrating a scene in "Golden Blood” _j

Golden Blood (part 1) 1 Jack Williamson 403

A powerful novel of weird adventures in the hidden land of Arabia

Autumn Robert E. Howard 422

Verse

Tiger Dust Bassett Morgan 423

A thrilling tale of brain-transplantation

The Return of Balkis E. Hoffmann Price 438

A thrill-tale of modern sorcery and the ancient Queen of Sheba

The Star-Roamers Edmond Hamilton 461

An interplanetary story that will make your pulse beat faster, by the author of "Crashing Suns"

The Ice-Demon Clark Ashton Smith 484

The wild adventure of a hunter who sought to dig royal rubies from a glacial tomb

Revelations in Black Carl Jacobi 495

An utterly strange story of the woman who sat by a fountain in the house of the bluejays

Buccaneers of Venus (conclusion) Otis Adelbert Kline 5 10

A novel of breath-taking adventures amid the eery perils of another planet

The House of Shadows Mary Elizabeth Counselman 523

A strange little story, about a family whose images would not reflect in the mirror

Weird Story Reprint:

Over an Absinthe Bottle W. C. Morrow 529

A tale of an eery encounter in a San Francisco saloon

The Eyrie 535

A chat with the readers

The White Moth August W. Derleth 540 f.

A brief story of a little white insect that became an instrument of retribution

Published monthly by the Popular Fiction Publishing Company, 2457 E. Washington Street, Indianapolis, Ind. En-
tered as second-class matter March 20, 192$, at the post office at Indianapolis, Ind., under the act of March 3, 1870.
Single copies, 25 cents. Subscription, $2.50 a year in the United States, $4.u0 a year in Canada. English office:
Charles Lavell, 13, Serjeant's Inn, Fleet Street, E. C. 4, London. The publishers are not responsible for the loss
of unsolicited manuscripts, although every care will be taken of such material while In their possession. The don-
tents of this magazine are fully protected by copyright and must not be reproduced either wholly or in part
without permission from the publishers.

NOTE — All manuscripts and communications should be addressed to the publishers' Chicago office at 849
North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, IU. FARNSWORTH WRIGHT. Editor.

Copyright 1933, by the Popular Fiction Publishing Company.

COPYRIGHTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

-7 — . —

402

olden Blood

By JACK WILLIAMSON

A tale of weird adventures in the hidden land beyond the cruel desert of the Rub’
Al Khali, and a golden folk that ride upon a golden-yellow tiger
and worship a golden snake

"It was a bleached
man skull, set
pole planted
the sand."

1. The Secret Legion

T HE noonday Arabian sun is curi-
ously like moonlight. The eye-
searing brilliance of it, like the
moon, blots out all color, in pitiless con-
trast of black and white. The senses
withdraw from its drenching flame; and
the Arab kaylulah or siesta is a time of
supine surrender to supernal day.

Price Durand, sprawled beneath a sun-

faded awning on the schooner’s heat-blis-
tered deck, lay in that curious half-sleep
in which one dreams, yet knows he
dreams, and watches his visions like a
play. And Price, the waking part of his
mind, was astonished at his dream.

For he saw Anz, the lost city of the
legend, where it stood hidden in the des-
ert’s heart. Mighty walls girdled its
proud towers, and away from their foot
stretched the green palm groves of the

403

404

WEIRD TALES

great oasis. He saw the gates of Anz
open in the dream, massive valves of
bronze. A man rode out upon a gigantic
white camel, a man in gleaming mail of
gold, who carried a heavy ax of yellow
metal.

The warrior rode out of the gate, and
through the tall palms of the oasis, and
into the tawny dunes of the sand-desert.
He was reaching for something, and his
fingers kept tight upon the helve of the
great ax. And the white camel was
afraid.

A fly catne buzzing about Price’s head,
and he sat up, yawning. A damned
queer dream, that! He had seen the old
city as vividly as if it had actually been
before his eyes. His subconscious mind
must have been at work on the legend:
there had been nothing in the story about
a man in golden armor.

Well, it was too hot to worry about a
dream, too hot to think at all. He
mopped the perspiration from his face,
and stared around him with eyes narrowed
against the blinding glare.

The Arabian Sea blazed beneath the
merciless sun, a plane of molten glass.
The blazing sky was tinged with copper;
dry, stinging heat drove down from it. A
tawny line of sand marked the northern
horizon, where the desolate shifting dunes
of the Rub’ A1 Khali met the incandes-
cent sea. The schooner Inez, as furtively
sinister as her swart Macanese master, lay
motionless upon the hot, steely ocean, a
mile offshore, her drooping, dingy sails
casting narrow and comfortless shadows
upon greasy decks.

Price Durand, lounging beneath his
tattered awning, was saturated with the
haunting loneliness of hot sea and burn-
ing sand. The brooding, shadowy hostil-
ity of the unknown desert so near flowed
about him like a tangible current, silent,
sinister.

His emotions had become oddly divid-
ed, he was thinking, in the long days since
the schooner had left the Red Sea, as if
two forces in him were struggling for
mastery.

Price Durand, the world-weary soldier
of fortune, was afraid of this crudest and
least known of the deserts of the world,
but not, of course, to the extent of wish-
ing to abandon the expedition; he was not
the sort to quit because he was afraid.
But he struggled against the tawny,
brooding power of the desert, fiercely de-
termined not to be mastered by its silent
spell.

And the other, new-born part of him
welcomed the haunting spirit of the des-
ert, surrendered to it gladly. The very
loneliness beckoned, the swart crudty
was a mute appeal. The same stern hos-
tility of the land that frightened the old
Price Durand was a fascinating allure for
the new.

"See Fouad’s coming,” boomed Jacob
Garth’s calm voice from the foredeck.
"Kept the rendezvous to a day. We’M
be starting inland by Monday.”

Price looked up at Jacob Garth. A
huge, gross, red-bearded man, with a de-
ceptive appearance of softness that con-
cealed his iron strength. His skin looked
white and smooth; it seemed neither to
burn nor tan beneath the sun that had
cooked all the others to a chocolate brown.

H olding the binoculars with which he
had been scanning the red line of
the coast, Jacob Garth wheeled with pon-
derous ease. He evinced no excitement;
his pale blue eyes were cold and emotion-
less. But his words woke the schooner
from sun-drenched sleep.

Joao de Castro, the swarthy and slant-
eyed Eurasian master, scum of degenerate
Macao, burst out of his cabin, shrieked
excited questions in Portuguese and bro-

GOLDEN BLOOD

405

ken English. De Castro was small, phys-
ically insignificant, holding authority over
his crew by sheer force of cutthroat hell-
ishness. Price had no great liking for
any of his strangely assorted fellow ad-
venturers; but Joao was the only one of
them he actually hated. That hatred was
natural, instinctive; it had risen from
some deep well of his nature at first sight
of the man; and Price knew the little Ma-
canese returned it cordially.

Jacob Garth silenced the feverish ques-
tions of the master with a single booming
word: "There!”

He handed his binoculars to the little
man, pointed at the line of undulating
sand across the shimmering, steely sea.

"Price’s attention went back to Garth.
After three months he knew no more of
the man than on the day he had met him.
Jacob Garth was a perpetual enigma, a
puzzle Price had failed to solve. His
broad, tallow-white face was a mask. His
mind seemed as deliberate and imperturb-
able as his massive body. Price had never
seen him display any shadow of emotion.

Presumably, Garth was an Englishman.
English, at any rate, he spoke, unaccented
and with the vocabulary of an educated
man. Price imagined that he might be a
member of the aristocracy, ruined by the
war, and attempting this fantastic expedi-
tion to recoup his fortune. But the sup-
position was unconfirmed.

It was strange, and yet almost amusing,
to watch Jacob Garth standing motionless
and immutable as a Buddha, while the ex-
citement his words had created ran like
a flame over the ship.

The men sprang up from where they
had been lounging on the deck, or came
running up the companionway, to line the
rail in a shouting, jostling throng, obliv-
ious of the beating sun, staring at the ho-
rizon of sand.

Price surveyed the line, Speculatively.

A hard lot, this score of life-toughened
adventurers who called themselves the
"Secret Legion.’’ But a hard lot was just
what this undertaking demanded; no
place here for pampered tenderfeet.

Every man of the "Secret Legion” had
served in the World War. That was es-
sential, in view of the actual nature of the
schooner’s cargo, which was manifested as
"agricultural machinery.” None was
younger than thirty, and few were more
than forty. One, besides Price, was an
American; he was Sam Sorrows, a lanky
ex-farmer from Kansas. Nine were Brit-
ish, selected by Jacob Garth. The others
represented half a dozen European coun-
tries. All were men well trained in the
use of the implements in the cargo; and
all were the sort to use them with desper-
ate courage, in quest of the fabulous treas-
ure Jacob Garth had promised.

With only their naked eyes, the men at
the rail could see nothing. Reluctantly,
Price got to his feet, crossed the hot deck
to where Garth stood. Without a word,
the big man took the binoculars from the
captain’s trembling hands and handed
them to Price.

"Look beyond the second line of
dunes, Mr. Durand."

Endless ranks of heaving red-sand
crests marched across the lenses. Then
Price saw the camels, a line of dark
specks, creeping across the yellowish flank
of a long dune, winding down toward the
sea in interminable procession.

"Sure it’s your Arabs?” he asked.

"Of course,” boomed Garth. "This
isn’t exactly a main street, you know. And
I’ve had dealings with Fouad before. I
promised him two hundred and fifty
pounds gold a day, for forty mounted
warriors and two hundred extra camels.
Knew I could depend on him.”

But Price, haying heard before of
Fouad El Akmet and his renegade band

406

WEIRD TALES

of Bedouin harami or highwaymen, knew
that the old sheikh could be depended
upon for little save to slit as many throats
as possible whenever profitable opportu-
nity offered.

The stinging sun soon drove the men
back to the narrow shadows. Stifling si-
lence settled again, and the vast, unfriend-
ly loneliness of the Rub’ A1 Khali — the
Empty Abode — was flung once more over
the little schooner drenching in blinding,
merciless radiation.

B y sunset of the next day the last box
and crate had been landed from the
schooner and carried up beyond reach of
the waves by Fouad’s forty-odd men. The
neat, tarpaulin-covered piles stood beside
the camp, surrounded by tents and kneel-
ing camels.

Price, guarding the piles with an auto-
matic at his hip, smiled at the consterna-
tion that would ensue in certain diplo-
matic circles if it became known that the
"agricultural implements” in these crates
had gone into private circulation.

Mentally, he ran over the inventory,
chuckling.

Fifty new Lebel rifles, .315 caliber,
five-shot, sighted to 2,400 meters, with
50,000 rounds of ammunition.

Four French Hotchkiss machine-guns,
air-cooled — an important consideration in
desert warfare — also .315 caliber, mount-
ing on tripods, with 60,000 rounds of
ammunition, in metal strips of thirty
rounds.

Two twenty-year-old Krupp mountain
guns, which had seen service in several
Balkan wars, and five hundred rounds of
ammunition, shrapnel and high explosive.

Two Stokes trench mortars, and four
hundred ten-pound shells to match.

Four dozen .45 automatics, with ammu-
nition. Ten cases of hand grenades.

Five hundred pounds of dynamite, with
caps and fuses.

And looming near him, beside a stack
of oil and gasoline drums, was the most
ambitious weapon of all: a light-armored,
three-ton army tank, mounting two ma-
chine-guns, equipped with wide treads
specially designed for operation over a
sandy terrain.

Price had wanted to bring an airplane
also. But Jacob Garth had opposed the
suggestion, without any good reason save
that landing and taking off would be dif-
ficult in the sand-desert. Price, for once,
had deferred, without suspecting tire mo-
tive of the other’s opposition.

Many weeks of cautious, anxious effort,
and many thousands of dollars — Price’s
money — had been paid for this parapher-
nalia of modem war, to equip the little
band of hard-faced men who called them-
selves the "Secret Legion.”

From his place by the tarpaulin-covered
crates, Price watched Jacob Garth coming
away from the empty schooner. He no-
ticed curiously that Garth had brought all
the men from her, even Joao de Castro,
her swarthy, pock-marked little captain.
As the boat neared the sand, he saw that
Garth and de Castro were quarreling; or
rather that the little Eurasian was scream-
ing shrill invective at the big man, who
appeared placidly unconscious of him.

Price was wondering why no watch had
been left aboard, when he saw the an-
chored schooner quiver abruptly. A
muffled detonation rolled from her across
the quiet sea. Price saw debris lift slow-
ly from the deck, and yellow smoke spurt
from ports and hatches.

With a curious silent deliberation, the
Inez listed to port, lifted her black bow
into the air, and slipped down by the
stern.

Then Jacob Garth’s booming voice
drowned the lurid protestation of the en-

GOLDEN BLOOD

407

raged captain: "We won’t need the ship
out in the desert. And I didn’t want her
tempting anybody to turn back. When
we find the gold, de Castro, you’ll be able
to buy the Majestic, if you want!”

2. The Yellow Blade

J ACOB garth had come to Price Du-
rand three months before, at a bar in
Port Said— a giant of a man, grossly fat,
his pouchy, pallid face covered with a
tangle of red beard. His once-white lin-
ens were soiled, limp with sweat: the sun-
helmet pushed back on his head was bat-
tered, sweat-sodden.

The man possessed a puzzling strength.
In his pale-blue, deeply sunk eyes was
something hard and cold, a strange glint
of will and power. His great, thick hand
was not soft, as Price had expected; its
grasp was crushing.

"Durand, aren’t you?” he had greeted
Price, his deep voice richly resonant.
Keenly his pale eyes appraised Price’s six-
feet-two of solid, red-headed body; pen-
etratingly his cold eyes met Price’s unwa-
vering, deep-blue ones.

Price studied him in return, found
something to pique his curiosity. He
nodded.

"I understand you are the sort who can
be called a soldier of fortune?”

"Perhaps,” Price admitted. "I have
cultivated a certain taste for excitement.”
"I have something that should interest
you.”

"Yes?” Price waited.

"You have heard the desert tales of
Anz? I don’t mean the village of Anz in
North Arabia. The Anz of the lost oasis,
beyond the Jebel Harb range.”

"Yes, I know the Arab legends, of Ma-
gainms and other lost cities of the central
desert. New Arabian Nights."

"No, Durand.” Garth lowered his
mellow voice. "The Bedouin tales of

Anz, fantastic as they are, are based on
truth. Most folk-tales are. Even the
Arabian Nights you mention have a core
of true history. But I’ve something more
than hearsay to go on. If you will be so
kind as to accompany me aboard my
schooner, I’ll give you the details. The
Inez — down in the outer basin, by the
breakwater.”

"Why not here?” Price motioned to
a table in the corner.

"There are certain articles I want to
show you, by way of evidence. And —
well, I don’t care to be overheard.”

By reputation Price knew the Inez and
her swarthy Macanese master — and knew
nothing good of either. Any enterprise
in which they were involved promised
dubious adventure. But in his present
mood, restless, weary of the world, that
was not to his distaste.

He nodded to the big man.

J oaode castro welcomed Price aboard,
with a twisted smile upon his swart
face, which had been so eaten away by
smallpox that it was hairless. The dark,
oblique eyes of the little Eurasian went
fleetingly to Jacob Garth, and Price caught
a furtive question in them. The big man
pushed by him, almost roughly, led the
way to a dingy cabin, amidships.

Locking the door behind them, he
turned to face Price with hard, pale eyes.

"It’s understood you say nothing of
this, unless you accept my proposition.”
"Very well.”

He studied Price again, nodded. "I
trust you.”

He made Price sit down, while he set a
bottle of whisky and two glasses upon the
cabin table. Price refused the drink, and
Jacob Garth said abruptly:

"Suppose you tell me what you know
of Anz — the lost Anz.”

"Well, simply the usual story. That

408

WEIRD TALES

the inner desert used to be fertile, or at
least inhabitable. That it was ruled by a
great city named Anz. That the spread-
ing deserts cut the city off from the world
a thousand years or so ago.

"It’s just what might be expected, con-
sidering the Arab imagination, and the
fact that southern Arabia is the biggest
blank spot on the map, outside the polar
regions.”

Jacob Garth spoke slowly, in his deep,
passionless tones:

"Durand, that legend, as you have out-
lined it, is true. Anz exists. It is still
inhabited — or at least the old oasis is.
And it is the richest city in the world.
Loot for an army.”

"I’ve heard men say such things be-
fore,” Price observed. "Do you know?"

"You may judge the evidence. I’ve
been exploring the fringes of the Rub’ A1
Khali for twelve years — ever since the
war. I’ve lived with the Bedouins, and
run down a thousand legends. And most
of them turned out to be simply distorted
versions of the story of Anz.

"And, Durand, I’ve been as far as the
Jebel Harb range.”

That statement raised Price’s estimation
of the man. He knew that these moun-
tains were considered as mythical as the
lost city beyond them. If Jacob Garth
had seen them, he must be far more than
the unwieldy mass of flesh that he ap-
peared.

"I had five men,” he went on. "We
had rifles. But we couldn’t pass the Jebel
Harb. Durand, those mountains were
guarded! I fancy the people of Anz
know more about the outside world than
we know about them. And they aren’t
anxious to resume communications.

"We had rifles. But they attacked us
with weapons that — well, the details are
rather unbelievable. But the five with me
were brave men, and I came back alone,

though not altogether empty-handed.
The evidence I spoke of.”

Moving with a certain cat-like ease,
despite his gross bulk, Jacob Garth
opened a locker and brought Price a roll
of parchment — a long, narrow strip of
cured skin, dry, cracked, the writing upon
it fading with the centuries.

"A bit faint, but legible,” said Garth.
"Do you read Spanish?”

"After a fashion. Modern Spanish.”
"This is fair Castilian.”

Price took it with eager fingers, un-
rolled it carefully, and scanned the ancient
characters.

"Mayo del Ano 1519,” it was dated
[May, of the year 1519].

The manuscript was a brief autobi-
ography of one Fernando Jesus de Quadra
y Vargas. Born in Seville about 1480, he
was forced to flee to Portugal at the age
of twenty-two, as a result of circumstances
that he did not detail.

Entering the maritime service of King
Manoel, he was a member of the Portu-
guese expedition under Alfonso de Al-
buquerque, which seized the east coast of
Arabia in 1508. There, becoming for the
second time involved in difficulties that
he did not describe, he deserted Albu-
querque, only to be immediately captured
and enslaved by the Arabs.

After some years, having escaped his
captors, and not daring to return to the
Portuguese settlements, he had set out,
upon a stolen camel, to cross Arabia, in
the direction of his native Spain.

"Great hardships attended me,” he re-
lated, "for want of water, in a heathen
land where the true God is not known,
nor even the prophet of the infidel. For
many weeks I drank naught save the milk
of my she-camel, which fed upon the
thorns of the cruel desert.

"Then I came into a region of hot
sand, where the camel died for want of

GOLDEN BLOOD

409

water and fodder. I pushed onward on
foot, and by the blessing of the Virgin
Mary did come into the golden land.

"I found refreshment at a city beside
groves of palms. In most hellish idol-
atry did I find these people, who call
themselves the Beni Anz. They worship
beings of living gold, which haunt a
mountain near the city, and dwell in a
house of gold on that mountain.

"These beings, the golden folk, took
me captive to the mountain, where I saw
the idols, which are a tiger and a great
snake that live and move, though the}'
are of yellow gold. A man of gold, who
is the priest of the snake, did question
me, and then tear out my tongue, and
make me a slave.

"For three years did I labor in the
mountain, and by the mercy of God I
slew my guard with his own sword of
gold, which I have with me. Once more
with a camel provided by the goodness of
the Virgin, I went toward the sea, along
a road that is marked with the skulls of
men.

"Again thirst has pursued me, and the
evil power of the golden gods. The
camel is dead, and I am a cripple; so I
can never leave these mountains, in which
I have found a spring. In this cave I shall
die, and I pray that the vengeance of God
shall fall soon upon the golden land, to
purge it of idolatory and evil.”

P rice sat staring at the dry and brittle
parchment, trying to fill out in his
imagination the epic of desperate adven-
ture that its faded letters outlined. The
old Spaniard must have been made of
stern stuff, to do what he had done, and
to dress the camel’s hide and make ink
and write his memoirs — driven by some
obscure impulse of egotism — even after
he had resigned himself to death.

Garth’s deep voice broke the spell:
"What do you think of it?”

"Interesting. Very much so. But it
might be a forgery, of course. Plenty of
old parchment to work on.”

"I found that,” said Garth, "near a
human skeleton, in a cave in the Jebel
Harb.”

"That doesn’t answer my objection.”

Garth smiled, grimly. "Perhaps this
will. It would not be easily forged.”

He went back to the locker, and drew
out the yellow blade. Wondrously it
scintillated in the dim cabin; the ruby
blazed hot in the serpent’s mouth. A
gem-set, golden yataghan!

"Look at this!” he boomed, in the deep
voice that was so hypnotically compelling.
"Gold! Pure gold! And tempered hard
as steel! Look at it!”

He swung it in a hissing circle, then
handed it to Price.

A weird weapon, heavy, its broad,
double-curved blade razor-keen. Price
thumbed it, realized that it carried an
edge no ordinary gold or alloy of gold
could keep. The handle was a coiled
serpent of soft gold, grasping in the
fanged mouth a great, burning blood
ruby.

Leaning across the table, Jacob Garth
looked as extraordinary as the weapon;
thick-bodied, immensely broad of shoul-
der, skin soft and white as a child’s, cold
eyes glittering strange and hard and
eager above the tangle of curling red
beard.

"Yes, it’s gold,” Price admitted. No
denying that — or that it was harder than
any gold he had ever seen. "And die ruby
is genuine.”

"You are satisfied?” Garth demanded.

"Satisfied that you have something un-
usual — the manuscript was rather fantas-
tic in spots. But what’s your proposi-
tion?”

410

WEIRD TALES

"I'm organizing another expedition.
I’m going to take a force strong enough
to break through the guarded pass, and
to smash whatever resistance the people
of Anz may offer, beyond. A small army,
if you please.”

"Central Arabia has never been con-
quered — and a good many nations have
tried in, in the last fifty centuries or so.”
"It won’t be easy,” Garth agreed, "but
the reward will be incalculable! Think
of the Spaniard’s house of gold! I know
the desert; you do, too. We won’t be ten-
derfeet.”

"And your proposition?”

"I need about $140,000 to finish
equipping the expedition. I understand
that you are able to advance such a sum.”
"Possibly. And in return?”

"You would be second in command — I
am the leader, of course, and de Castro
third. Half the loot will have to be di-
vided among the men. The remainder
we shall divide in twelve shares, of which
five are mine, four are yours, and three
de Castro’s.”

Gold for its own sake meant nothing
to Price. His own fortune, which he had
not striven to increase, approximated four
million dollars. But, at thirty-one, he
found himself a wanderer, weary of life,
oppressed by killing ennui, driven by
vague, formless longings that he did not
understand. For a decade he had been an
unresting, purposeless wanderer through
the tropic East, seeking — what, he did not
know.

The swarthy and hostile mystery of the
mountain-rimmed, barren sand-desert of
the Rub’ Al Khali — the "Empty Abode”
which the nomad Bedouins themselves
fear and shun — held an obscure challenge
for him. He had learned Arabic; he
knew something of desert life; he had
seen the fringes of the unconquered
desert.

The lure of treasure was nothing. The
promise of action meant more. Of strug-
gle with nature at her crudest. Of battle
— if Garth’s story were indeed true — with
the strange power reigning in the central
desert.

The adventure appealed to him as a
sporting proposition, as a daring and dif-
ficult thing, that men had not done be-
fore. And the gold of which Garth
talked meant no more than a trophy.

Price was suddenly eager, more inter-
ested and enthusiastic than he had been
over anything in many months. Decision
came to him instantly. But something
about him rebelled at taking second place
in anything, at taking orders from
another.

"I will have to be in command,” he
said. "We can share equally — four and
a half shares each.”

Pale and hard, Jacob Garth’s eyes
scanned Price’s face. His deep voice
rang out, almost angrily:

“You heard my proposition.” And he
added: "You needn’t fear dishonesty.
You may pay out the money yourself.
You know that I wouldn’t risk the Rub’
Al Khali unless I believed.”

"I can’t go,” said Price, quietly, "except
as the leader.”

And Garth at last had surrendered.
"Very well. You take command, and we
share equally.”

F or two months the Inez crept stealth-
ily between ports of eastern Europe
and the Levant, while Price and Jacob
Garth accumulated by the devious nego-
tiations required in such matters, the cargo
listed on the manifests as agricultural ma-
chinery, and the score of men who called
themselves the "Secret Legion.”

The transactions completed and the
cargo aboard, she slipped through (he
canal and down the Red Sea, and east-

GOLDEN BLOOD

411

ward along the Arabian coast, to the spot
that Jacob Garth had designated as the
rendezvous with his questionable Arab
allies.

3. The Road of Skulls

T he Sheikh Fouad el Akmet appeared
painfully surprized to learn that he
was expected to accompany an expedition
into the forbidden heart of the Rub’ A1
Khali. Jacob Garth, it developed, had en-
gaged his services upon the promise of
two hundred and fifty pounds a day, and
rich plunder, without specifying where
the plundering was to be done.

" Salaam aleikum! [peace be unto
you!]” he cried, in the age-old formula
of desert greeting, when Price Durand
and Jacob Garth entered his black tent, on
the night after the sinking of the Inez.

"Aleikum salaam," Price returned,
thinking at the same time that the old
Bedouin’s pious greeting would have little
meaning if he ever found it feasible to
attack his farengi allies.

Price and Garth seated themselves upon
the worn rugs spread against camel-sad-
dles on the sand. Fouad sat facing them,
supported by a dozen of his renegade fol-
lowers, squatting in a semicircle. One of
the Arabs served thick, viscid, unsweet-
ened coffee, poured from a brass pot
into a single tiny cup, which passed from
hand to hand.

Price sipped the coffee, delaying the
opening of negotiations; Garth’s bland,
pale face was inscrutable. The glitter of
curiosity burned stronger in Fouad’ s dark,
shifting eyes, and at last he could contain
himself no longer.

"We ride soon?” he asked.

"Truly,” Price assented. "Soon.”
"Raids,” the old sheikh suggested,
’’against the El Murra? They have many
camels, of the fine Unamiya breed.” His

eyes glittered. "Or perhaps we will make
war even on the farengi?”

Jacob Garth’s hand went to the leather
scabbard at his belt. Slowly he drew the
golden sword, held it up.

"What think you of this?” he asked in
Arabic as fluent as Price’s own.

Fouad El Akmet started to his feet and
came forward eagerly, the gleam of the
yellow blade reflected in his eyes.

"Gold?” he demanded. Then, at sight
of the snake motif of the sword’s handle,
of the great ruby held in the serpent’s
fangs, he leapt back, with a muttered
"Bismillah!”

"Yes, it is gold,” Garth told him.

"The thing is accursed!” he cried. "It
is of the forbidden land!”

"Then perhaps you know the road of
skulls? ’ Garth asked, his sonorous voice
slow and even. "You perhaps have heard
of the treasures that lie at the end of that
road, beyond the Jebel Harb?”

"No, by Allah!” the old Bedouin cried,
so vehemently that Price knew he lied.

"Then I shall show you the road,”
Garth told him, "for we ride to plunder
the land at its end.”

"Allah forbid!” The sheikh was nerv-
ously twisting a finger in his sparse, rusty
beard; fear was plain in his eyes.

"Every camel will be laden with gold!”
Garth predicted.

"It is forbidden the faithful go beyond
the Jebel Harb,” the sheikh exclaimed
with unwonted religious fervor, fondling
the hi jab suspended from his neck. "Be-
yond is a land of strange evil; Allah and
his prophet are unknown there.”

"Then shall we not wage a jehad, a
holy war?” said Price, maliciously.

An agitated whisper ran along the line
of squatting men. Price caught mention
of djinn and ’ifrits.

"What is there to fear, beyond the
mountains?” he asked.

412

WEIRD TALES

“I know not/’ he replied, "but men
whisper strange things of the Empty
Abode.”

"And what are those things?” Price in-
sisted.

"Of course I do not believe,” Fouad dis-
claimed his superstition, half-heartedly.
"But men say that beyond the Jebel Harb
is a great city, that was old when the
prophet came. Its people, though Arabs,
are not of the faithful, but worship a
golden snake, and are ruled, not by men,
but by evil yellow djinn, in the shape of
men.

"The yellow djinn ride upon a great
tiger, to hunt down those who cross the
mountains, and take their skulls to mark
their evil caravan-track to die sea. And
they dwell in a castle of shining gold,
upon a black mountain that is called hajar
jehannum [the rock of hell] .

"Such are the desert tales. But of
course I do not believe!” Fouad insisted
again, when it was quite evident that he
did.

"I see now,” Price remarked aside to
Garth, "where our old Spanish friend got
the material for his fantastic diary.”

"I have seen queer things in the Jebel
Harb,” the other returned. "Fouad’s
story is more truth than he imagines.
Nothing supernatural, you understand.
Modern science was bom in this part of
the world, you know, when Europe was
still in the Dark Ages. My theory is that
we have to deal with an isolated offshoot
of the classic Arabic civilization, on a lost
oasis.”

Price turned back to Fouad el Akmet,
who was sitting again on his rugs, star-
ing fascinated at the golden yataghan.

"We talk of the evil of the Empty
Abodes,” Price explained in Arabic.
"There is nothing for our allies to fear,
for we bring with us the weapons of the
farengi. Even should there be such

things beyond the accursed mountains as
men say there are, we can destroy them.”
"On the morrow we shall show you our
weapons,” Garth agreed suavely. He and
Price rose from the rugs, and returned to
their own tents, leaving the old sheikh
muttering uncertainly, obviously tom be-
tween fear of the desert’s unknown terrors
and greed for its equally unknown treas-
ures.

A t sunset on the following day, when
t the air was comparatively cool again.
Price rode upon a borrowed camel with
the old Bedouin and a group of his men
to the summit of a dune above the camp.
Jacob Garth had remained behind, to act
as director of ceremonies.

"You have rifles,” Price said, indicat-
ing the muzzle-loading trade guns the
Aiabs carried. "But have you such rifles
as these?”

He waved an arm, and the four Hotch-
kiss machine-guns, waiting on their tri-
pods below, burst into staccato song, their
hail of bullets lifting little clouds of sand
along the beach.

"Your rifles fire swiftly,” Fouad ad-
mitted. "But what do djinn care for
rifles?”

"We have greater guns.” Again Price
waved.

The Stokes mortars and the two ancient
mountain guns fired at once. The crash-
ing detonations and the whine of shell
fragments, the pits torn in the loose sand,
were startling, even to Price. The more
cautious of Fouad’s men drew their cam-
els back behind the dune.

"And our chariot of death!” Price
shouted, signalling again.

The tank, which the Arabs had not seen
in motion, burst into roaring life and
came lumbering up the slope of the dune,
like some gray antediluvian monster, clat-
tering, clanging, guns hammering vicious-

GOLDEN BLOOD

413

ly. For a moment the awe-struck Arabs
held their ground; then, as one, they
goaded their camels into sudden flight.

"I am sorry,” Jacob Garth greeted
them, when they rode sheepishly back
into camp, "that you did not remain to
see our other weapons.”

"The camels were frightened,” replied
Fouad. "We could not control them.”

"Even as the watchers in the desert will
be frightened,” said Price. "Tomorrow
we take the road of skulls?”

The old sheikh hesitated, muttering.
"You will pay the gold you promised,”
he asked Garth, at length, "even if we
find no treasure?”

"Yes,” Garth assured him.

Price was ready. He called out a com-
mand, and four men came staggering
from the camp, beneath the weight of a
great teak chest. Silently, they set it on
the sand in front of Price. Deliberately,
he found the key, unlocked it, lifted the
lid to display the splendor of glittering
yellow sovereigns.

Two men might have carried the chest
easily enough; but it contained five thou-
sand pounds sterling, in gold, represent-
ing another advance from Price’s pocket.
He held back the lid, let the Arabs feast
avid eyes.

"For each day we will pay you this
great wealth.” He counted two hundred
and fifty coins into gclden piles, and let
Fouad feel them with trembling hands.
"We carry the treasure with us,” he
added, "in the chariot of death, and pay
you when we have returned to the sea.”

The old sheikh haggled, insisting upon
daily payment. But Price held to his
terms, and that night, in the coffee-circle,
Fouad surrendered.

"Wallah, effendi. Tomorrow we ride,
and may Allah have mercy!”

I T was a curious procession that left the
landing-place next morning before
sunrise. The Sheikh Fouad El Akmet
was the leader, upon his magnificent
white he jin, or racing-camel. A tall,
sparse-bearded, hawk-nosed man was
Fouad, with a predatory glitter in his
dark eyes that did not belie his unsavory
reputation.

The baggage-camels were strung out
behind him, laden with cases still marked
"spades” or "cultivators” or "farm im-
plements.”

The Arabs rode among them; lean men,
mostly, as if dried and shriveled by the
desert sun, with dark stern faces, thin,
tight lips and piercing eyes. Like Fouad,
they wore flowing white kafiyehs, or
head-cloths, and rough black abbas, or
robes, of camel’s hair.

The white men were mostly in the rear,
all of them save Price and Jacob Garth
unused to camel-riding, and sitting their
rolling, jerking mounts awkwardly and
with much complaint.

Bringing up the rear came the tank,
motor roaring, reeking of burning oil
drifting from it. The camels were afraid
of it — and the Arabs regarded it as a very
dubious addition to the caravan. It would
stiffen Fouad’s uncertain loyalty, Price
thought — especially since it carried the
gold.

They had risen before dawn, packed
the complaining camels, and breakfasted
hastily, the Arabs upon dates and flaps of
half-raw dough, the others upon bacon
and coffee and hardtack.

Price had put himself near the head of
the long line of laden beasts that wound
over the first lines of dunes, away from
the sea, toward the heart of the great un-
known, the Empty Abode, toward desper-
ate adventure.

It was all strong wine of life — the
crisp, refreshing dawn-breeze; die glory

414

WEIRD TALES

of the scarlet sunrise, enchanting the des-
ert with purple mystery; the strong, eager
stride of the fine beast he rode; the shout-
ing of the men, even the grumbling
groans of the camels.

Caravan of strange adventure! Vague,
rosy visions swam before him. He saw the
"golden land” of the Spaniard’s man-
uscript, the lost city of Anz beyond the
forbidden mountains. Disillusion and
ennui slipped from him, He felt young
and free and powerful. He knew that he
was not living in vain, that splendid
deeds awaited to be done.

But the brief elan dropped away, as the
sun rose higher. The illimitable expanse
of crescent hills, dull-red and yellow,
wavered and trembled in the heat, unreal.
The air became stifling, almost unbreath-
able, laden with the alkali dust that rose
from the trail in choking, saffron clouds.

Perspiration wet his body and the sting-
ing dust clung to it. He soon felt un-
washed, miserable. His eyes smarted
with dust, ached from the pressure of
blinding light that drove down from the
sun and the blazing sky, beat back from
the sand, shone dazzling from all the hot-
horizon.

The dry air parched his throat, and he
refused himself water from his canteen to
wet it — three days, Jacob Garth said it
would be, to the first well. The saddle
chafed him. His lip bled, where sun and
alkali dust had already cracked it.

Even so, the strange urge in him did
not completely die. He knew the fierce
joy of conquest as he reached the crest of
each new dune.

T hey were just losing sight of the sea,
over the trackless, undulating plain
of sand, when old Fouad rather appre-
hensively pointed out to Price a tiny white
object that gleamed against the dull red
waste ahead.

Reluctantly the old Bedouin turned his
camel toward it, As they drew near,
Price saw that it was a bleached human
skull, set on a tall pole planted deep in
the sand. From beside it, another was in
view, perhaps a mile ahead.

"Who set it here?” Price asked the
sheikh, curiously.

"How do I know?” said Fouad, nerv-
ously. "Men say the djinn of the ac-
cursed land leave here the heads of men
they have lured to doom. Perhaps they
mark the road to Eblis.”

Price rode toward the pole. His camel
shied from the unfamiliar object; he dis-
mounted and approached it on foot. The
pole, some three inches in diameter, was
of reddish brown wood, very hard. The
skull was some ten feet above his head,
but he could see bits of hair and gristle
still clinging to it.

The Arab went on, and Price waited
for Jacob Garth.

"Just what do you know of these
skulls?” he demanded.

"There is an unbroken line of them,
extending from here to a pass in the Jebel
Harb, where I found the Spaniard’s
bones. Presumably they go on, to Anz —
I wasn’t able to get beyond the mountains.
They must have been here four hundred
years ago, for Quadra y Vargas mentions
them in his manuscript.”

"This skull is no four centuries old!”
objected Price. "Look at it!”

"Evidently not. It must have been re-
cently replaced.”

"But who would replace it?”

"I think I told you that I believe the
people of the hidden land know more of
the outer world than the outer world
knows of them. I suppose they wanted
to keep marked the road to the sea.”

"But why use the skulls of men for
markers?”

GOLDEN BLOOD

415

"Durable and easy to see, I suppose —
and cheap."

Several times that day Price rode back
along the line of march, to talk with the
men. Few of them knew anything of
camels. They distrusted the unfamiliar
beasts, and were chafed and bruised by
the lurching saddles. They complained
of thirst and heat and the blinding flame
of the brazen sky.

During the intensest heat of the day
they stopped and let the camels kneel
upon the bare, burning sand, to rest.
Toward evening they pushed on again,
until it was too dark to find the guiding
skulls.

The next day was the same, and the
next.

On the morning of the fourth day they
came out upon a narrow plain of gravel,
a dark slash through red-sand dunes.
There they found a well — a square, un-
covered pit, from which they drew water
with leathern buckets and ropes of cam-
el’s hair, for beasts and men. Muddy
water, bitter, brackish, almost undrink-
able.

It was late afternoon when the last
camel had been satisfied and the last
water-skin filled. Then they pushed on
again, followed by the clattering tank,
into another belt of loose red sand.

Two more nights they camped among
the dunes. On the morning of the sixth
day from the sea they came again upon
hard, rolling, flinty gravel, which sloped
up to a grim and rugged wall of barren
mountains.

“The Jebd Harb,” Jacob Garth told
Price, "where I was stopped before.
We’ll see trouble before we pass them —
and I don’t know what beyond.”

In the pellucid desert atmosphere the
mountains looked very near. Beetling
black granite ramparts, furrowed into
rugged gorges and hostile, jutting salients,

luridly crowned with strata of red sand-
stone, with pinnacles of white limestone,
glaringly leprously. A basalt-ribbed "wall
of death. Bare and tortured cliff and
peak were silent and ugly as bleaching
bones. No green of vegetation lined the
steep-walled canyons. Unbroken, the
dark cruel scarp marched across the hori-
zon, a sinister barrier to the accursed land.

T he desert is deceptive. The barrier
had looked very near, but as sunset
approached on the following day, the car-
avan was still winding up the waterless
gravel slopes, which were barren of even
the ordinary sprinkling of dwarf acacia
and stunted tamarisks.

Fouad was unmistakably apprehensive.
Leaving his usual place at the head of the
caravan, he rode back to join Price and
Jacob Garth. Without his leadership, his
men stopped, gazing with unconcealed
fear at the grim, looming, granite escarp-
ment.

"Sidi," the sheikh began, unwontedly
respectful again in his anxiety, "Allah
forbid that we go farther! Before us are
the mountains of the accursed land, that
Allah gave to powers of evil. Beyond
wait the djinn, to set our heads upon their
poles.”

"Nonsense,” Price said. "Didn’t we
show you the jarengi weapons?”

Fouad muttered in his beard, and craft-
ily demanded that he be paid the seven
days’ wages due, that he might distribute
the gold to encourage his timid men.

"It would only encourage them to de-
sert,” Price told him grimly. "Not one
piece, until we get back to the sea!”
"There is water in the mountains,”
boomed Garth. "You know we must
have water.”

"Bisshai," Fouad agreed. "The skins
are dry and the camels are thirsty. But

even so-

416

WEIRD TALES

' Let us ride on,” Price cut him off.
And the old Bedouin, grumbling, at
last returned to the head of the column.
By sunset they had covered half the re-
maining distance to the lofty pass ahead,
between cleft, towering masses of dark
granite, capped with bands of somber red
and livid white.

It was at sunset that they saw the first
weird phenomenon that heralded the com-
ing conflict with the alien power of the
hidden land.

4. The Tiger in the Sky

P RICE had urged his weary camel to the
head of the line again, to ride beside
old Fouad and bolster the Bedouin’s cour-
age. Jacob Garth was back among the
men. As usual, the camels were strung
out in single file; it was over a mile back
to the tank, which brought up the rear,
clattering and banging across the hard,
flinty gravel.

But a few miles ahead the colossal
rugged precipices of black granite plunged
upward to red-and-white crowns of sand-
stone and limestone, forming twin towers
that grimly guarded the pass.

"Ya Allah!” the Arab renegade
shrieked suddenly, terror-stricken. "Be
merciful!” Beneath his dark abba he
raised a lean arm that shook with fear,
and pointed above the pass.

Lifting his eyes, Price saw a strange
thing in the sky, beyond the yawning gap,
above dark, tumbling rocks that were in-
carnadined with the red glare of sunset.

Penciled rays of light were streaming
upward in a vast, spreading fan, against
the violet-blue of the east. Thin, pale
beams of rose and saffron, flung out as if
from a single radiant point hidden below
the black range.

Price was startled; something about the
luminescent display seemed weirdly arti-
ficial. Fighting back his momentary fear,

he turned to the trembling Fouad, who
had gone white as his pigmentation al-
lowed.

"What is it?”

"The evil djinn of the accursed land
rise beyond the hills!”

"Nonsense! Just the rays of the sun
shining past a cloud, and seeming to con-
verge in the distance. A natural phe-
nomenon ”

Price rapidly scanned the cloud for a
cloud to prove his theory, but found its
indigo dome, as usual, perfectly clear. He
hesitated, then went on rapidly:

"A mirage, perhaps. We always see
them in the morning and the evening.
They are queer, sometimes. Once, in the
Sind desert, hundreds of miles from the
sea, I saw a steamer. Funnels and smoke
and all. Even made out the boats in their
davits. Simply reflection and refraction
of light, in the atmosphere ”

"Bismillah wa Allahu akbar !” the old
sheikh was groaning, too overcome to
listen.

Price then saw that a picture was taking
form above the fan of colored rays, some-
what as if projected upon the sky by a
colossal magic lantern. Yet it seemed
weirdly real, stereoscopic.

What he saw was madness. He knew
that it should be mirage, grotesque fancy,
illusion. It should have been hallucina-
tion, merely the projection of the Arabs’
fears against the sky. But he knew that
it was not, knew that it was, in some
strange way, a reflection of actual exist-
ence.

"The tiger of the accursed land!”
Fouad was screaming. "The yellow
woman of the mirage, whose fatal beauty
lures men across the desert to die. And
the golden god, the king of evil djinn!”

Abruptly the old Bedouin lifted his
camel-stick, shouted at his mount, turned
in panic flight.

W. T.— 1

GOLDEN BLOOD

417

Drawing himself back from the appari-
tion in the sky, Price drew his automatic
and called to the Arab in a deadly voice:

"Stop! You aren’t going to run off. 1
can kill you quicker than all the ’i frits in
Arabia!”

Fouad sputtered and cursed, but he
brought his white camel to a halt. His
dark eyes, wide with fear, went back to
the pass.

A tiger had appeared in the sky, above
the spreading rays of rose and topaz.
Huge as a cloud, its image was incredibly
vivid and real. A sleek, powerful beast,
magnified incredibly, floating above the
jagged peaks. Its sides were barred with
bright, rufous gold. Vast muscles bulged
its thick, massive limbs. It looked down
from the sky with tawny, terrible eyes,
narrowed to black slits.

A curious, box-like saddle of black
wood was strapped upon the bade of the
uncanny beast, like a howdah on an el-
ephant. In it were two persons.

One was a man, golden-bearded, yel-
low-skinned, dad in red robes and wear-
ing a crimson skull-cap. His face was
sullenly cruel, marked with the stamp of
sinister power. Balanced on his knee was
a great spiked mace, of yellow metal.

The other was a woman, green-robed,
reclining in an attitude of voluptuous
ease. Her skin, also, was yellow; and her
long hair, flying free, was red-golden.
Slim, green-cased, her body was lithely
graceful, and on her face was a perilous
beauty.

Her slightly oblique eyes were tawny-
green, oddly like the tiger’s. Their lids
were darkened, as if with kohl. Her lips
were crimsoned, her golden cheeks
touched with rouge, her slender fingers
henna-reddened. Hers was a loveliness
exotic and sinister.

Fouad’s furtive movement called back
Price’s eyes. He saw that the whole cara-
W. T. — 2

van had stopped. Even the tank’s clatter
had ceased. He sensed the fear that ran
electric along the line, from man to awe-
struck man, fear that might readily be-
come disastrous panic.

The old sheikh had been edging his
camel away.

"Keep still,” Price warned him, "or
I’ll kill you!”

He was certain that the danger was not
immediate, and he knew the Arabs would
not desert without their leader.

His eyes went back to the picture in
the sky, silent and awful in its magnitude,
infinitely appalling for its eldritch strange-
ness. The yellow man’s crafty, leering
eyes scanned the caravan. And the
woman was smiling down. Price saw, at
him.

No kind smile was it. Mysterious,
enigmatic, mocking. Its evasive chal-
lenge raised in Price a vague and name-
less anger; yet somehow the exotic golden
beauty stirred faint awakenings of desire.

The oval, aureate face was lovely, allur-
ing, yet subtly malicious. The greenish,
tawny eyes hinted of hot passion, of burn-
ing desire and withering hate, of caprice
unchecked by fear or law. They were
wise with an ancient knowledge not all of
good. They were bold with power un-
limited and carelessly held. They watched
Price, speculatively, tauntingly. . . .

The yellow-beard moved. In both
great hands he raised the spiked golden
mace, flourished it over the pass, in a ges-
ture definitely hostile, menacing. On his
harsh face was warning . . . and hate.

The woman smiled down at Price, with
a challenge in her tawny eyes, and ran
slim, reddened fingers through the golden
masses of her hair.

"See, Howeja!” Fouad hissed. "He
warns us to go back!”

Price did not answer. His gaze was
still upward, meeting the woman's enig-

418

WEIRD TALES

matic orbs, giving challenge for chal-
lenge. His own eyes were hard. Abrupt-
ly, to the old Arab’s manifest surprize, he
laughed, laughed long and harshly, jeer-
ingly, at the woman, and turned away.

"A modern Lilith, eh?” he muttered.
"Well, strut your stuff. We can play the
game.”

Then, slowly as the picture had ap-
peared, it faded, dissolved in the darken-
ing amethystine sky, vanished. The fan
of narrow rays died beyond the pass.

The black ramparts of the Jebel Harb
loomed hostile against the dusk.

Price sat on his camel, his automatic
still covering Fouad El Akmet — and won-
dered.

The weird beings of the accursed land,
then, were not all fiction. People lived
beyond the mountains, people whose
skins were the color of gold — not the yel-
low-brown of the Mongolian, but golden;
people who had domesticated the tiger,
and who must command strange powers
of science.

The apparition, he was sure, had been
some sort of mirage. He recalled the
Fata Morgana, that he had seen once at
the Strait of Messina, remembered ac-
counts of that uncanny light-phenomenon
of the German mountains, known as the
Specter of the Brocken, in which colossal
shadows are cast upon the clouds. But
had this lost race mastered the laws of the
mirage? Did they rule illusion?

If this fantastic madness had already
greeted them, what would they encounter
beyond the range?

5. The Sign of the Snake

onsider this also,” Price said: "if
any man turns back, we shall pur-
sue him with the chariot of death, and
leave his skull to make a nest for scor-
pions.”

Fouad El Akmet muttered, and twisted

his finger in his scrawny beard. The
Arabs had refused to go farther, on the
night before, had protested, even, at
camping on the spot. Now, on the fol-
lowing morning, the old sheikh was
vainly opposing any further advance.

"Sidi, you know that the shadow was a
warning. We may yet save our lives from

the golden king of djinn ”

"If we go on and conquer him!”
"There is water in the pass,” Garth
said. "A clear, sweet well. And you
know the bitter waters of the last well are
many days behind. Few of you would
live to taste them.”

Fouad wavered visibly.

"Remember the chariot of death,”
Price urged. "And the gold in it that is
already yours, if you but stay.”

"Wallah!” the Bedouin cried at last,
though with obviously tepid enthusiasm.
"We ride into the pass.”

The rugged masses of the Jebel Harb
loomed ragged and black against a pallid
glow of pearl in the east, as the caravan
toiled wearily upward again, over rolling
foothills that were darkly purple in the
dawn.

The long line of camels wound into the
pass, between soaring, cyclopean walls of
elemental granite. The patch of sky
ahead became a lurid high curtain of scar-
let flame; the desert behind was lit with
pastel hues of saffron and lavender.

Price rode in the lead, beside Fouad, to
keep alive the uncertain spark of the old
man’s courage. Garth was back among
the men; the tank, as usual, at the rear.

The lower pass was a titanic gorge, a
gargantuan gash through living rock. Its
beetling walls, marching in rough paral-
lel, seemed almost to close above its rug-
ged, boulder-strewn floor. As Price and
the old Arab picked a cautious way up-
ward for the tender-footed camels, the
sun rose to touch the high cliffs with a

GOLDEN BLOOD

419

brush of scarlet fire, but the canyon re-
mained shadow-filled.

Scanning the narrowing walls ahead,
Price saw a glittering flash at the base of
a sandstone column, a mile up the gorge.
Instinctively he goaded his camel into
cover behind a gigantic fallen mass of
granite.

"The pass is guarded,’’ he called out to
Fouad. "I saw the gleam of a blade,
ahead. Better have your men take cover.”

The old Arab groaned.

Price saw that the old sheikh, struck
motionless with terror, was staring at the
man who had been riding just behind
him.

That man was the Arab Mustafa, a
young warrior, mounting a black she-
camel of whose gait and endurance he was
inordinately proud. From the shelter of
the fallen megalith. Price saw Mustafa
freeze suddenly into strange immobility.

The young Arab and his black camel
became utterly motionless. The camel
was poised rigid, in the very act of step-
ping, one forefoot lifted. The man
leaned forward, mute wonder on his thin
face, one hand lifted as if to shade his
eyes. His brown abba and flowing white
kafiyeh had become stiff as cast metal.

"Ya, Mustafa!” old Fouad howled, in
terror.

A strange, swift change came over the
motionless figure. Glittering tracery of
white was drawn over man and camel.
In seconds, a frosty film covered both.
The mounted man had become a statue in
white, bright with an icy sparkle.

Staring in dazed and unbelieving won-
der, Price heard abrupt, crackling sounds
from the figure. A breath of air cold as
an arctic blizzard struck Price’s face,
chilled the sweat on his forehead.

Then he knew! Not, of course, how
it had been done. But he knew that Mus-
tafa had been frozen to death! By some

strange agency, the temperature of his
body had been suddenly lowered to a
point far below zero. It was so cold that
frost condensed upon it from the air.

For a moment Price was dazed by the
discovery, with all that it implied of the
perils ahead. Then a mind and body
trained to meet unexpected emergencies
responded smoothly, almost automatically.

"Quick,” he called to the men behind.
"Get over by the cliff, out of sight.” He
gestured.

A score of the Bedouins and a few of
the whites had been close enough to see
the weird tragedy. As Price’s words broke
their spell of terror, they wheeled with
one accord in panic flight, goading weary
camels to a run. In vain he shouted at
them to halt, as they vanished down the
canyon.

D ismounting swiftly, he slipped to
the edge of the sheltering boulder
and cautiously surveyed the gorge ahead.
He saw nothing moving; ominous silence
hung expectant between the frowning
walls. He studied the base of the sand-
stone monolith, where he had seen that
fleeting, betraying gleam that had saved
him from Mustafa’s fate, and quickly esti-
mated the range.

Then, hastening back, he found the
whole caravan gathered in confusion
about the tank, where Jacob Garth had
succeeded in stopping the fleeing Arabs.
The frightened clamor ceased as he rode
up.

"Refrigeration to the »th degree,” he
explained tersely. "The man was frozen
— instantly. The white is frost. I saw
the glitter of the thing that did it, up the
canyon.”

The pale, fat face, the cold, deep-set
eyes of Jacob Garth revealed neither won-
der nor fear.

"They saw us, last night,” he boomed.

<420

WEIRD TALES

"In that — mirage. They are ready — as
they were before.”

"We’ll give them a run for the
money,” announced Price. He turned to
the men and began shouting brisk orders:

"Muller, take your crews and mount
the Krupps for action. Bear on the base
of that sandstone cliff.” He pointed.
"Range is about four thousand yards.”

"Yes, sir!” The little Teuton, who had
been a captain of artillery in the Austrian
army, saluted briskly and ran toward the
baggage-camels that carried the mountain
guns.

Rapidly Price gave commands to have
the machine-guns unpacked and set up, to
cover the ancient cannon. He had rifles
and automatics served out, stationed snip-
ers to pick off any of the unseen enemy
' that might appear.

When the weapons were unpacked, he
sent the camels back to the rear, with
Arab herdsmen. The camels were to be
guarded at all costs, for their loss would
mean inevitable ruin.

Jacob Garth watched silently as Price
rapped out his orders, the bland white
face showing neither satisfaction nor dis-
approval.

"Watch Fouad,” Price told him, in a
low voice. “If he rims out on us, with
the camels, we’re ditched. I’m going up
in the tank, where I can watch the results
of our fire and signal corrections.”

As the little mountain guns delivered
their first bracketing shots, Price delivered
final instructions, sprang upon the iron
deck of the tank and climbed down
through the manhole to the gunner’s seat.
He spoke swiftly to Sam Sorrows, the
lanky Kansan, who had been driving the
machine, and it lurched into roaring mo-
tion.

Up the defile it lumbered, past the clus-
tered, frightened Arabs, still mounted,
under Jacob Garth’s guard, past the thud-

ding little mountain guns, past the Hotch-<
kiss guns and snipers that protected them.

Below the fallen megalith, beside
which Mutafa stood white in statuesque
rigidity, Price left the tank, crept forward
again to scan the upper gorge. No enemy
was in view. He watched the yellow
bursts of dust and smoke about the base
of the sandstone column as the shells ex-
ploded, called corrections out to Sam Sor-
rows, at the tank, who wigwagged them
back to the gun crews.

A score of shells whined over: still the
enemy did not appear.

Price slipped back to the tank.

"Signal them to stop firing,” he said.
"Probably just wasting ammunition. And
let’s go ahead, to where we can see, any-
how. Do you mind?”

"You’re the captain,” grinned the man.
"It will be risky. I don’t know what
we’ll find. Our guns may have scared
them off; they may be waiting. The thing

that hit Mustafa ”

Sam Sorrows was clambering back into
the tank.

"Risks are up my street, or I’d be back
in Kansas,” he said. "Let’s go!”

Price climbed in after him, smiling.
Here was a man! Price, himself, never
tried too hard to avoid danger; he had a
fatalistic faith in the Durand luck. His
philosophy was simple: play the game,
leave the dealing of the cards to fate, to
kismet, as the Arabs said. And he re-
joiced to find another of the same reck-
less stamp.

I urching, clanging, treads ringing
J upon bare rock, the tank roared up-
ward between narrowing granite walls,
on to the sandstone pillar. And chill fin-
gers of fear snatched at Price’s heart: the
shells had fallen short!

Bright metal glittered a full hundred
yards beyond the group of ragged, smok-

GOLDEN BLOOD

421

ing, shell-torn craters, a fantastic device
of glistening brass, of shimmering crystal,
surmounted with a huge, ellipsoid mirror,
scintillant with a silvery fulgor.

A single man in blue bent behind the
machine.

This uncanny mechanism, Price knew,
was what had killed Mustafa. Would the
tank’s light armor be sufficient protection
against the terrific cold that had frozen
the Arab rigid in a split second? He
thought not.

Fear numbed him, the deadliest he had
ever known. Icy feet raced up his spine.
Chill sweat beaded his face. Grim, tense,
he bent to the machine-gun.

The harsh stutter of it rose above the
song of the racing engine. But, tossing
from side to side in the lurching, rocking
tank, he could not aim. Splinters of rock
danced about the strange glittering ma-
chine, but the old, blue-robed man behind
it seemed invulnerable.

Violet light gleamed suddenly on the
ellipsoid mirror. And the air in the tank
was deathly cold. Price’s breath crackled,
as he expelled it in an involuntary gasp
of terror.

With numbed hands, he kept the gun
hammering. At last a stream of bullets
swept the bright machine. A vivid flare
of purple light enveloped it, an explosive
burst of flame that left but a twisted
wreck of bent metal and broken crystal.
Flung back by the blast, the blue-robe
fell, lay motionless.

The man was still alive when they left
the tank and went to him, though burned
by the explosion and riddled with bullets.
He lay in his gory robe, and stared up at
Price with a red grin of hate.

He had been tall. His features were of
the familiar Arab type, hawk-nosed, thin-
lipped, cruel. He might have been some
ensanguined, dying Bedouin.

Price bent beside him. His black eyes

filmed with hate, and he whispered, in the
strangely inflected Arabic of an unfamil-
iar dialect:

"I die. But on you, intruder, is the
curse of the golden folk. By Vekyra, and
by the tiger and the snake, and by Mal-
ikar the master — you shall follow me!”

He coughed blood, and died with a
leer of bloody horror on his face.

Only when his final struggles had
ceased did Price find the sign of the snake
— a brand on his forehead, that had been
hidden by the hood of his burnoose-like
blue robe. Printed in gold on the dark
skin was the figure of a coiled snake. It
seemed burned into the skin, indelible.

Price studied it with wonder strangely
akin to horror. What did it mean? Was
the dead man a branded member of some
grim snake-cult?

"Let’s go on through the pass,” Sam
Sorrows proposed suddenly.

"A good idea. Might be more of
them.”

They clambered back in the tank, which
was now silvery with its bright armor of
frost where the ray of deadly cold had
touched it. The defile narrowed before
them, then broadened, and they lumbered
across a high sandstone plateau.

They looked beyond the range.

P rice had half expected to see a fertile,
inhabited oasis, but the endless plain
that stretched away beyond the Jebel Harb,
shimmering in a smoky haze of heat, was
grim and lifeless desolation.

Long drear dunes of red sand, like
stilled seas of death. Dark gravel-bar-
rens. Lurid streaks of yellow clay. Salt-
pans, glaring leprous white. Low and
age-worn hills of livid limestone and
black basalt; grim, denuded skeletons of
ancient ranges.

The accursed land, indeed! All its
swart vastness showed no hint of life.

422

WEIRD TALES

Nothing moved upon it save the ceaseless,
silent flicker of heat, like waves of ghost-
seas. Or perhaps, when the winds blew,
red and ancient sands, whispering secrets
of the immemorial past.

Across those wastes of desolation led
the road of skulls. With his binoculars.
Price could trace the white gleams of the
grisly landmarks for many miles, far out
into the dead solitude of the forbidden
land.

What would they find at the end of
that road? That is, he thought, if they
lived to reach it! The perils of alien sci-
ence — the encounter in the pass had as-
sured him of that. The peril that had
been promised in the yellow man’s flour-
ish of the great mace, in the mirage about
the mountains. And the peril Price had
read in the taunting, tawny-greenish eyes
of the golden woman.

Jacob Garth met them, alone and on
foot, as the tank lumbered back down the
gorge. Icy apprehension had dawned in
Price’s heart before they heard him speak.

The pale eyes in his fat, bland face were
coldly unreadable as ever; his deep, suave
voice carried neither concern nor self-re-
proach, when he said:

"Durand, Fouad got away.’’

Throat suddenly dry, Price managed to
whisper, "The camels?”

"Gone. We’re stranded As the
Spaniard was.”

Price’s despair gave way to a flame of
useless anger.

"I told you to watch! How ”

"We were watching the tank. When
it turned white, and stopped, the Arabs
wheeled and dashed off, before we could
stop them. Drove off the baggage-camels
too. We’re on foot.”

Scathing criticism was on Price’s
tongue, but he checked it. It would do
no good. Nothing, now, would do any
good. Only a hopeless battle remained;
battle, not with man but with the world’s
crudest desert.

The astounding adventure that befell Price Durand
unrolls its breath-taking incidents in next month’s
WEIRD TALES, You can not afford to miss it.

utumn

By ROBERT E. HOWARD

Now is the lyre of Homer flecked with rust,

And yellow leaves are blown across the world,
And naked trees that shake at every gust

Stand gaunt against the clouds autumnal-curled.

Now from the hollow moaning of the sea
The dreary birds against the sunset fly.
And drifting down the sad wind’s ghostly dree
A breath of music echoes with a sigh.

The barren branch shakes down the withered fruit.
The seas faint footprints on the strand erase;
The sere leaves fall on a forgotten lute,

And autumn’s arms enfold a dying race.

A thrilling tale of brain-transplantation and the eery
vengeance of a weird tiger

W ITH an order for Paradise birds
to be shipped to a private col-
lector, Dineen decided to see if
any could be bought from Omar Sung
Loo, a native dealer whose unscrupulous
trickery had made all dealers wary of him
and caused the captains of cargo boats to
refuse to carry his trapped animals and
birds. Dineen had been cheated by

Omar Sung Loo in his early days of Col-
lecting but he had cut his eye-teeth in the
game and wiped off his score against the
native dealer. He was on his guard, and
with him went his chief trapper and
right-hand man, Tom Rourke, big, devil-
may-care Irishman, equally at home with
the natives and white men in their gath-
ering-places of Malaysia.

423 .

424

WEIRD TALES

Over a drink before they started,
Rourke unbosomed the fact that he had
taken a native wife.

"Faith, a man that might any day set
his foot on the tail of a king cobra has
no business to marry a nice white girl,”
he said. "Should I meet .up wid a hun-
gry tiger, my fate wouldn’t be good for
her to contemplate. But native women
understand their country an’ its peculiar
accidents. What’s more, they have ways
of avengin’ a man just as white widows
have accident insurance claims. There’s
a sayin’ that where nature grows a poison
the antidote is near by. Maybe ’tis true.
But anyway I paid dear for a little golden
native woman from the temple. She
dances finely, an’ she knows native magic.
I hope you’ll feel free to visit our bunga-
low any time, sir.”

Time came when Dineen wished to
God he had not bothered with the order
for Paradise birds or met Rourke’s native
wife.

T he cages in Omar Sung Loo’s kam-
pong were small and badly kept.
The luckless prisoners drooped in merci-
less sun heat. Omar Sung Loo was a
mongrel of bad ancestry despised by Ma-
lays and Chinese alike, and as Dineen
stole his business by honest dealings,
Omar Sung Loo went in for side-show
freaks. There was a two-headed carabao
calf, an elephant with twenty instead of
eighteen toes held for a high price from
nabobs who considered them lucky, and
in a case two cobras joined for three-
quarters of their length. Rourke spat
with disgust as he looked at them.

"Freaks should be killed,” he men-
tioned. "But Dineen, damned if them
cobras look as if they was born that way!
Look at the puckered scar between them.”
Omar Sung Loo led them to a shal-
low pond where a small monkey lay
along the sloping bank, its lower extrem-

ity in the water. Dineen cursed as he
gazed. Instead of legs the tail of a fish
was joined to its hips! Agony burned in
its eyes. It snatched at a banana Omar
offered and a Chinese attendant forced
a tablet down its throat, which seemed to
relieve its pain. It would not live long,
but Omar Sung Loo tried hard to make
Dineen buy it while it lived.

Oriental curio shops are full of mum-
mied monkey bodies joined to dried fish-
tails, the "mermaid” of commerce, but
Dineen realized some hellishly ingenious
master surgeon had attempted this re-
volting living experiment. Rourke’s
curses were livid. His hand went to his
pocket and the searing sunlight shone
on a small black revolver in his hand.

"I’m of two minds whether to shoot
you or the monkey,” he said to Omar
Sung Loo, who backed away from the
belligerent Irishman and snarled out an
order. The Chinese darted to a cage and
howled a warning. From the open cage
door swung the head of a tiger.

Omar was running to the house and
the two white men followed. Dineen
knew that trick of Omar’s to frighten vis-
itors by the peril of a tiger on the loose
and gouge cumshaw from them. But this
time the Chinese was having trouble jam-
ming the cage door on the tiger’s neck
to force him back into the cage. The
beast had a foreleg outside the bars.
They heard the wooden rods splinter
and the tiger leaped down, letting out
roars of defiance. The Chinese fled for
cover and Omar cursed as the tiger cleared
the kampong fence at one bound.

Shrieks of frightened villagers shrilled
through the heated silence, but Omar
snarled commands and the coolies opened
the kampong gates and wheeled the tiger
cage across the opening. Then Omar
took a small sack from his turban folds
and loosed the puckering string.

In the sun-baked emptiness of the vil*

TIGER DUST

425

lage road stalked the royal beast, roaring
at intervals. A native coming down the
road unaware of peril saw it and ran up
the kampong fence in an incredible burst
of agility and dived over. Rourke
chuckled. But Omar went into the road
and tossed a little powder from the
pouch in his hand. The tiger crouched
with lashing tail, ready to spring, took
a crawling step forward and sniffed the
white powder. Instead of leaping, it be-
gan to lick the dust. Omar dribbled a line
of white powder to the cage and the
beast lapped and purred, rolling as it
went along licking the powder to a few
grains on the floor of the cage. The cage
door was jammed shut, with a contented,
purring tiger inside.

With a malignant smirk Omar turned
to the two white men.

"My lord knows his master,” he said.

"Will you sell me some of that pow-
der?” asked Dineen.

"No, Tuan, it is my great secret,” said
Omar, drawing up the pouch string. An
instant later Rourke’ s hand darted,
snatched the pouch, and with his gun
covering Omar’s breast he nudged Dineen
to go and backed out of the place with
the curses and threats of Omar Sung Loo
shrieked after them.

"Curses don’t worry me none,” said
Rourke. "But he’s said ’em of a nature
to blast my body now an’ my soul here-
after.”

N o native showed a face to them
in that otherwise friendly village as
they plodded the hot road back to Soera-
baya after a fruitless search for birds and
with trouble hot on their heels for the
theft of the tiger dust.

“I’ll go get ye some birds,” said
Rourke. "It’d be as well fer me to get
inland anyway. Omar is lower than a
cobra, but he’s clever an’ he’s in with the
worst fiends of undiluted Asiatic hellish-

ness this side o’ Sheol. Dineen, some o’
his Chink surgeons joined them two
cobras, sure as I live! I’ve heard o’ graft-
in’ fins on fish, but that monkey business
makes a man side inside. He’s got smart
surgeons on his staff, an’ no laws o’ God
or man, heaven or hell to keep him in
bounds. I’ll give that tiger dust to my
wife, who believes tigers have souls. She
even says humans can change into tigers,

an’ ” Rourke launched into stories

of were-tigers that lasted until they were
back at the hotel, bathed and sipping cool
drinks.

Next day Rourke departed for the in-
terior after Paradise birds, and Dineen
waited. No word came for months and
he grew worried and decided to call on
Rourke’s native wife in a village of the
interior. He came after the heat of the
day to a pretty bungalow covered with
wine-colored bougainvillea, and coming
up the path heard the soft notes of a
native bell-gong and the croon of a love
song which ceased as he drew near.
Rourke’s wife came to the porch clad in
a silk sarong, her dark hair in a coil over
one ear, a red flower over the other.

She was dainty and pretty, but her
dark eyes held the enigmatic look of
coquetry arrested in full flush by tragedy.
He had brought her a string of small
seed pearls as a wedding gift, but drop-
ping them into her hand made him feel
as awkward as if he gave red-heeled slip-
pers to a nun. She spoke port English
and he asked if she had heard from
Rourke.

Dineen came from that interview with
a chill in spite of the tropic heat. Un-
doubtedly Rourke’s wife was fey. Her
passion for Rourke was apparent, her
loyalty intense. She talked queerly, cau-
tiously, but she said evil had befallen
her man. She had heard him calling in
agony yet warning her not to try to reach
him. He was not dead, yet devils tor-

426

WEIRD TALES

mented him. He loved her, yet their life
together was ended. He commanded her
not to avenge him as love might prompt.
Dineen realized that she accepted her loss
with native philosophy but she was wait-
ing to learn the mystery regarding Rourke
and brooding vengeance in spite of his
warning.

Dineen decided to search for his chief
trapper, and Rourke’s wife sent him a
relative of her family named Inbam who
knew Rourke and was loyal to his wife.
Inbam gathered native carriers and sup-
plies for the trip, one item of which sur-
prized Dineen, a supply of thick long
candles. Dineen reminded Inbam that
they had flashlights, but the native said
Rourke always carried "corpse-candles”,
which in case of his death were to be
lighted around his body. Rourke’s wife
added her gift for good luck, a treasured
crucifix of Rourke’s, finely carved of
ebony and ivory wrapped in a length of
silk, which Dineen placed in the box con-
taining the "corpse-candles” and some
canned and bottled delicacies for his own
personal use.

N ative canoes took them up shore-
less rivers where mangrove pods
ripen on branches and drop roots in ten-
uous webs bedded in the ooze. Crocodiles
rested their opened jaws on the roots and
small sicsac birds flew in and out taking
food particles from their fangs. The
country swarmed with small monkeys
that scattered when a big orang-outang
would come along and peer curiously at
the canoes. Dineen noticed his natives
were uneasy from the start, and their
fears affected him. But there were com-
pensations for the discomforts of insects
and leeches and guarding against the
swinging tails of crocodiles. The moun-
tain peaks were mist-wreathed, the
wooded jungles held orchids like tinted
flames. Birds of Paradise danced on up-

per tree branches at sunrise. There were
flashes of gaudy parrots and butterflies
like wind-blown bits of gay silks.

They found a blazed trail where Rourke
had cut his way inland. But the irritat-
ing thing to Dineen was the constant
torturing roll and stuttering of native
drums talking back and forth.

Inbam, who understood the drum gos-
sip, was worried. The other natives
wanted to turn back, but there is a pen-
alty for deserting a white man in the jun-
gle; also, Inbam held over them the fear
of vengeance from Rourke’s wife, who
had a definite reputation as a sorceress.

Leaving the canoes, they went through
saw-edged jungle grass, plagued by leech-
es and stinging insects. Around the eve-
ning campfire the men picked off leeches
and polished their jimats, which are
charms against evil. The villagers met
with were friendly and they remembered
Rourke going through, but refused to
furnish guides. "There are debbil-deb-
bils,” they said.

Inbam translated, but Dineen did not
scoff. There was a tangible apprehension
in his own mind, a feeling of weird
things going forward in the jungle. He
decided that a rest from the laborious
travelling and a little hunting might
cheer the men. Birds were plentiful. So
at the foot of a hill range standing like
the vertebrae of a monster that had fos-
silized as it crawled seaward, they made
camp.

Dineen’s personal supplies were kept
in a hut they built on high stilt legs. He
was sitting in the doorway one sundown
when he saw a huge orang-outang stand-
ing in the crotch of a near-by tree holding
the branches apart and peering down.
Inbam also saw it and silently handed up
a gun to Dineen’s hand. Instantly the
branches crashed together, the ape fled,
and the swish of other branches spring-

TIGER DUST

ing back as it leaped from one to another
told of its size and weight.

That night the native drums were live-
lier. Inbam went to the nearest village
and returned late with a tale that kept
Dineen awake longer than usual. He
said a native girl had been carried into the
jungle by one of the orang-outangs. The
villagers were mourning her loss and talk-
ing about terrible magic in the hills. In-
bam’ s own tale was interrupted as he
ceased speaking and pointed toward the
tree, and in the moonlight Dineen saw
again an orang-outang with its fangs
bared as if it grinned. There came a bel-
low from that hairy throat which sent the
men lying around the small campfire scut-
tling toward the hut, their curved knives
ready for defense.

The big ape stood on a branch balanced
by its hand-grip on a higher limb and
from its blade lips came sounds so un-
couth that Dineen felt the hair prickling
on the nape of his neck. He could have
sworn he heard the creature mouth words:

"By, Tuan, by . , which means "It
is true, Tuan.”

A silence bred of fear held Dineen
mute. Slowly and laboriously the great
ape mouthed sounds like Malay words.
The natives huddled together, whispering
in terror. At Dineen’s ear Inbam
breathed:

"He says 'orang puteh ubat,’ Tuan. He
wants white man medicine. What devil
is it that gives speech to a man of the
woods, Tuan?”

"That is foolish talk,” said Dineen
stubbornly, "Your wits wander. Get the
express rifle.” But at sight of Dineen
with the elephant gun in his hand, the
ape disappeared.

Below the but the natives were chat-
tering in frenzied outbursts and Dineen
knew they were ready to bolt.

"It is an ape that somebody has trained

427

and taught to speak,” he said, knowing
it was folly to contradict their belief that
the creature had used their own speech.
He did not yet believe it, and his men
needed to be handled carefully lest they
desert him now.

T hat night the drums spoke in pur-
ring spurts and tattoo rolls, bursting
sometimes into violent throbbing, and his
men lay awake whispering. At dawn they
pleaded to leave this evil place. Dineen
was one white man among a crowd of
savages almost uncontrollable from super-
stitious fear. He started them placing
bird-lime on sticks to lodge in the trees
and building cages on tall poles beyond
the reach of snakes; then he led them into
the jungle to hunt.

That night in camp, while supper was
cooking, he sat cleaning off leeches that
had penetrated his puttees and laced boots,
and decided to open canned peaches for a
treat. He pulled the box with his cloth-
ing from under the camp bed and groped
for the other case. Then Dineen cursed.
The case of precious canned food was
gone, and with it the candles and crucifix
packed among the bottles. He did not
suspect a thief among his own men; yet
around the hut lay his shaving tackle,
weapons and ammunition, far more ap-
pealing to a native from the village, left
undisturbed. He searched further, then
called Inbam, who had discovered that a
sack of rice was missing also. The sack
had been punctured and rice had trickled
from the hole as it was carried away.

At dawn they saw birds alighting to
feed on the rice. Dineen marked their
swooping flight toward a shadowy cre-
vasse in the hills.

"We’ll follow the thief,” he an-
nounced.

With a few picked men and Inbam he
started across the valley and camped near

428

WEIRD TALES

the hills that night. He was wakened
from sleep beside the Campfire by a sound
that lifted his hair. The light of dying
embers showed his men crouching or
creeping toward him. From the caves of
gloom beyond the dim fire-glow came a
booming voice like a minor tune played
on the bass notes of an ancient organ.
No human throat could have emitted its
rumbling sonorousness. Inbam touched
Dineen’s arm and his teeth chattered as
he whispered:

"Tuan, the man of the woods sings a
mating-song that I have sung to women.
It is a devil!”

"I’ve heard that damned ditty,” agreed
Dineen. Yet fear clawed at his brain.
Cold sweat broke from his pores. "It’s
that talking ape,” he added.

"Yes, Tuan. He is singing to the na-
tive girl he stole from the village,” said
Inbam.

There was a restless rustling of tree
branches that told of more than one
great ape in the vicinity. To Dineen’s
increasing horror there came a gusty
burst of profanity in a voice as mighty
as that of the singer:

"Shut up, ye damned brute. Quit yer
singin’ love songs to what the Chinks’ll
make o’ that poor little native girl that
ye stole an’ dropped in their kampong.
God! I could kill ye for doing that if it
wouldn’t be so hellish lonesome without
yer bad company in my own misery.”
The speech ended with a volley of oaths
that should have blasted their victim; then
came the reply in port Pidgin from the
voice that had sung the pantun:

"Be not angry with thy servant, Tuan.
Long have I followed you into the perils
of trapping beasts and birds. Now I am
trapped with you. Yet perhaps it was
so written. Strange magic I have seen,
yet never did I think to be caught by it.
The spirit of my first woman entered into

the body of a tigress. Now my spirit has
entered into the body of a man of the
woods.”

A snarl ended the stentorian musings.
Dineen pinched his own forearm until it
hurt convincing himself that he was not
dreaming. The crashing of tree branches
ended the jungle parley.

T here was no more sleep for Dineen.

At daybreak he led his men toward
the purple gap in the hills and again
camped at the edge of flat country bor-
dering another crocodile-infested river.
Leaving the men and supplies, Dineen
and Inbam went forward, picking their
way through masses of creepers and rot-
ting deadwood to the gloom of man-
groves bordering the water. From one
twisted root to another they stepped cau-
tiously. The muggers slipped into the
water and sank slowly, their unblinking
eyes staring upward, bubbles breaking
where they sank. The stench of rotting
vegetation and nauseating crocodile odor
was thick and heavy. Then as Dineen
peered up and down the dark stream he
caught sight of a neat modern power-
boat on the opposite side, moored to a
tree. From where it lay, a trail had been
hacked into the farther jungle.

Small monkeys chattered and fled with
sudden cries, a sign that orang-outangs
were coming. At the sound of distant
branches swishing, Dineen turned to re-
trace his way to solid ground. Inbam
was younger and more agile and he left
Dineen behind. Creeoers cut ofF Di-
neen’s sight of the native, when suddenly
a great ape dropped and confronted the
white man.

It stood erect, horribly huge and men-
acing. Dineen tried to shoot, but as he
swung the gun to his shoulder it was
wrenched from his grasp by a second
orang-outang which hung by its paws

TIGER DUST

from an overhead tree branch. His blood
seemed to congeal in his flesh as the big
ape came nearer, mouthing uncouth
sounds that even in his terror Dineen
could not refuse to understand.

"Dineen, ye don’t know me,” it said
mournfully. "Ye don’t know Rourke,
an’ I don’t blame ye. Ye couldn’t be-
lieve it’s me in this awful shape. But it’s
true, Dineen. It’s Rourke’s brain in the
head of an ape. That’s what the Chinks
did to me. Omar Sung Loo’s Chink sur-
geons played their hellish tricks on me
an’ my trapper, jist because I stole that
tiger dust o’ his. God! what a price fer
a man to pay.”

Dineen felt his senses whirling, his legs
wobbling. The stench of the crocodile
swamp filled his throat and nostrils and
vertigo clamped its claws in his vitals.
He tried to leap to the next tree-root and
his legs were paralyzed like a man in a
nightmare trying to escape from demons.
He stumbled and fell across a mangrove
root with his legs in the stinking ooze.

The giant ape came nearer, a paw
reached for him. He was lifted close to
that terrible face. Then he knew nothing
more until his eyes opened on a leafy can-
opy of cool shade and cleaner wind. It
was some minutes before he saw the great
apes crouching near him and realized that
he lay on a platform of bamboo crudely
lashed to branches high in the trees,
which swayed gently as the apes moved
and shifted their weight.

"Dineen,” came the rasping and thick
sounds from a tongue that was slowly
accustoming itself to human speech,
"It’s Rourke talkin’. God! I don’t blame
ye fer doubtin’ what I say. But listen to
what I’m sayin’ an’ try to understand.
Here, take a swig o’ this coconut milk.”
He whanged a nut on the tree branch and
broke the shell.

Dineen’s throat was parched and he

429

drank eagerly; then as his head lifted he
dropped it again on his arm, hoping to
God he dreamed the sight before him.
Yet the voice went on relentlessly:

"Dineen, I’m a sight to scare a man, I
know, but listen. Omar Sung Loo’s
Chink surgeons have a kampong near
here an’ a nice little surgery. Tabak —
that’s my trapper as was, though he’s an
ape now same as I am — well, we walked
into it innocent as babes. The Chinks
was polite and give us food an’ drinks.
They was both doped, Dineen. An’ them
devils butchered us an’ put our brains
into the heads of orang-outangs. They
meant to ship us to Omar an’ sell us as
freaks, but we broke away. Omar owed
me a grudge, an’ you remember how he
cursed me. He said he’d pay back, an’
he did.”

It took time for the slow and labored
utterance to be voiced. Dineen listened
helplessly, and something in that sorrow-
ful wail penetrated past fear, which was
his only sensation.

"Ye can’t believe,” mourned the ape,
"but I’ll show ye presently how true it is.
My wife knows. I went there an’ told
her I was in a devil land an’ could never
come home to her again. I told her not
to search for me. But I said if Omar
Sung Loo came tiger-trapping in the
jungles she might slip the word to the
natives to let a tiger maul him to death.
’Tis a poor revenge but ’twill keep him
from further hellishness. An’ Dineen, I
want your help now. My man, Tabak —
the unbaptized son of a slut! — stole a na-
tive girl an’ handed her down to the kam-
pong fer this Chink surgeon to make him
a sweetheart orang-outang. We stole her
before the head wound healed, an’ she’s
here on our tree-nest dyin’ by inches.
You’ve some skill with wounds, Dineen.
Look at her an’ see can ye do anything.
I’d end it for her, only it’s so damned

430

WEIRD TALES

lonesome, an’ Tabak an’ me would fight.
Somehow I want to live to know Omar is
dead first ... if I can stand it that
long.”

D ineen lay shuddering, hearing but
not heeding. The great ape lifted
him with his back against the tree bole
and pointed toward a female ape that sat
slumped in a heap as native women sit,
its body leaning forward between its up-
thrust knees. Around its head was a pink
puckered scar like the edge of a cap. One
look at the scar revealed to Dineen the
badly infected state. His dread-filled
eyes gazed at the other apes and saw the
healed scars around their heads. A burst
of insane laughter came from his lips.

"It’s tough on ye, Dineen, but you’re
safe with us, if that’s any comfort. Tell
me about the ape-girl.”

"That wound needs surgical attention
and disinfectants,” he muttered hoarsely.

"We got none, but there’s plenty in the
Chink’s kampong. You know drugs bet-
ter’n I do. I’ll take ye along.”

"I won’t go!” Dineen protested, but
his resistance was feeble. The big ape
was ruthless. Dineen saw that the ape
body and instincts were not wholly con-
trolled by the human brain, and Rourke
had been a bold hunter, cruel enough
when his work demanded. Dineen was
slung over his shoulder like a sack, car-
ried in swinging flight that swooped from
branch to tree. To save the lashing of
branches on his face he ducked his head
against the hairy breast and shut his eyes.
Presently he must waken from this devil
dream. . . .

There was a glimpse of dark water as
the apes leaped and caught branches on
the opposite shore; then he saw sun
gleams on a bamboo palisade and
thatched buildings like large huts. From
high in the tree Dineen looked down and

saw humans. His first thought was of
escape.

Gathering all his strength in a desper-
ate effort he heaved suddenly against the
ape’s grasp. Then he was falling, slither-
ing through thick-foliaged branches,
dropping to the ground inside the stock-
ade. He heard the bellow of the apes
and gun-shots crashing. Opening his
eyes later he saw a Chinese walking be-
side him as coolies carried him to the hut.
He also saw three orang-outangs chained
to trees in the kampong, leaping the
length of their fetters, yelling horridly.
The Chinese lashed at them with a whip
in his hand, and they cowered, whimper-
ing. A fourth ape slumped between its
knees like the she-ape in the tree eyrie.
Their heads were swathed in bandages,
their four paws manacled.

Dineen was glad to lie on a cot on the
hut porch behind mosquito netting and
drink what was handed him. The Chi-
nese spoke excellent English, but as Di-
neen cursed the nightmare through which
he was enduring so dreadfully, there came
further horror.

"It is neither fever nor a dream,” said
the Chinese. "Those apes have human
brains. We experimented long ago in
that branch of surgery. My countrymen
were adepts at grafting when your West-
ern colleges were being built. Recently
we have studied your work and gone
ahead tremendously. Animals furnish
our greatest field of experimentation.
You have seen some poor specimens in
the cages of Omar Sung Loo’s kampong.
He has a market for side-show freaks.
We hope he will be able to sell the talk-
ing apes which we have successfully pro-
duced. It has been possible for us to
transplant human brains into the skulls
of orang-outangs and have them survive.
But unfortunately our greatest prize, a
man of your race, escaped with a Malay;

TIGER DUST

431

ape-man. They brought me a native girl
who was operated upon, but stole her
before her wound healed. She may not
survive, for such operations need care in
treatment. Those men-apes you see in the
kampong speak no English and will not
be so valuable for side-show purposes in
European countries. So you see how
grateful I am that Rourke, the man-ape
who captured you, dropped you here. I
hope you will enjoy our hospitality until
we can trap another orang-outang.”

The sinister menace of the Chinese’s
words was some time penetrating Di-
neen’s mind. He was given highly spiced
curry and cool drinks, which he ate and
drank gratefully. Then he slept and
wakened behind the mosquito-netting of
the cot in a contented lethargy only dis-
turbed by the clanking chains and hoarse
cries of the ape prisoners.

A coolie led him to a bath house and
handed him fresh pajamas, comforting
and cool to his flesh. He was enjoying
the rest, the well-seasoned food and
drinks. His body and brain were still too
exhausted to anticipate danger or defend
himself against it. Except for the chained
apes, the place was quiet and deserted,
yet the jungle seemed noisier than usual
by day, beyond the bamboo fence.

H e rose and strolled toward the fence,
but two natives appeared armed
with ugly-looking krisses and herded him
ignominiously back to the porch, where
one stood guard while the other sum-
moned the Chinese surgeon.

Courteous of speech yet blandly cruel,
the surgeon informed Dineen more fully
of the horror awaiting him.

"You must not leave the house.”

Anger of the white man toward the
Oriental stoicism roused Dineen’s rage.
"I’ll go where I damn please,” he

cried. "And you’ll stop me at your peril.
My men are not far away, remember.”

"They can not enter here,” said the
Chinese. "Nor are you free to leave,
Dineen. I could not part with so fortu-
nate a guest for the experiment 1 have in
view, your own intelligent, trained and
educated brain. I lost Rourke, but I shall
not risk losing you. Better have another
drink, Mr. Dineen, to quiet your nerves.”

"Not another drop,” shouted Dineen.
"I believe you doped my drinks.”

"Of course, both your food and drink
were doped, as you call it. But is it not
better to meet fate which even the brav-
est man puts off as long as he can, the
translation from one existence to another
form of life? Think it over. I must at-
tend to that suffering ape in the kam-
pong.”

Slowly, frightfully, the ghastly truth
dawned in his mind. He sat in a hell of
chaotic and frenzied fear, and when the
drink was brought, he struck it from the
man’s hand. He was unarmed, helpless;
even his clothes were gone, except the cot-
ton pajamas in which he sat. His body
shuddered as he realized the fiendish sur-
geon fully intended to make an ape of
him! Chattering fear took him down the
steps to where the Chinese bent over the
chained ape, but two Malays dogged his
steps and stood beside him as he began to
plead against the fate in store for him.

The end came suddenly. From the
trees dropped a cyclonic fury of fighting
apes, bellowing their rage, knocking the
Malays aside, seizing them by the feet and
swinging their heads against the palms,
breaking their skulls like egg-shells. Di-
neen turned from the sight of the surgeon
being tom to shreds. Then he was
caught over the shoulder of an ape and
swung to the trees, the guttural Malay of
Tabak in his ears. The ape-man Rourke

432

WEIRD TALES

was gathering up the surgical instruments,
bottles of medicine and rolls of gauze.

A hell of noise, shrieking, roaring,
screeching, rang in Dineen’s ears until he
was carried to the tree platform. The
height above ground made him crouch
low beside the she-ape which lay limp on
its side. When the case of instruments
and drugs was thumped down beside him
Dineen touched the she-ape’ s body. He
sat back on his heels and shook his head.
"She is dead,” he said.

I N the swaying aerial perch he felt
numbed after the fright in his mind
and din of the fight. He watched dully
as the ape-men picked up the dead orang-
outang and lowered her body to the
thicket of lianas below, where they van-
ished. He was alone in the tree as night
fell and the prowlers of darkness began
their mysterious rustlings, the insect clack
and clamor arose. He slept and wakened
as the Scorpion crawled down the sky
and the Southern Cross was dimmed by
dawnlight.

He shrank from an attempt to descend,
but thirst tortured so badly that summon-
ing his courage he swung from the plat-
form to the nearest branch, and working
his way by the tree crotches he reached
the protruding root-knees and got to solid
ground. He drank from moisture of
night dew cupped in leaves, and followed
a well-defined trail to higher ground.
His men had fled, leaving the cold ashes
of a campfire to marie the place where
they had been. All day he traveled, fol-
lowing their trail, and at dark he saw
small lights flickering against a hill. With
a fresh burst of speed he hurried on, then
halted. Against the little flames he saw
the grotesque figures of the two ape-men.

He would not risk being their prisoner
again, and he circled cautiously along a
hill slope to a rode from which he could

look down. And the fear and repulsion
of the unnatural beasts left him as he
gazed upon their work. There was a hole
scooped from the earth, and in it lay the
body of the she-ape with the ivory and
ebony crucifix stolen from his camp hut,
on her breast. Around the grave stood his
stolen candles, their flames wavering in
the soft night breeze. Beside the grave
the ape-man Tabak sat crooning that Ma-
lay pantun, the love song roared in the
night. Dineen remembered that it was
the same song he had heard Rourke’s na-
tive wife singing to the accompaniment of
bell-gongs as he went up the path to her
bungalow. The voice of Rourke, mourn-
fully unaware of its volume, came to him
sorrowfully:

“Corpse-candles don’t mean much to
her, Tabak, but maybe it’ll help her soul
find its way home. God help me! I won-
der if this purgatory I’m goin’ through
will be enough fer me to find heaven.”

The cool night breeze was dearing
Dineen’s head of the drugs he had im-
bibed in the kampong food. He remem-
bered all that had happened, and even
bdieved it now! Yet exhaustion forced
him to lie and sleep on the rocky hill.
The leeches which had bled him freely
by day dropped from his flesh at night.
A feeling of fatalism dulled further fear.
He was roused from sleep by a touch on
his arm, and the sight of the ape squatting
near him was no longer frightening.

"Dineen, I’ll be takin’ ye to yer camp.
Go out with your men. There’s nothing
you can do for me except kill me, unless
maybe you’d see my wife an’ tell her to
go back to her people an’ forget me.
There’s nothing for her to forgive. We
was happy while it lasted.”

Dineen was carried swiftly, not caring
where, and dropped on the opening of the
hill crevasse into the valley, high enough
to look down on his own camp.

W. T. — 2

TIGER DUST

433

"Put him there, Tabak,” said the other
ape, who carried the gun that had been
snatched from Dineen when he met them
at the river. "Dineen, when ye get out
say a prayer fer the soul o’ Tom Rourke.
He’s had hell enough alive. There can’t
be worse hell where he’s goin’.” The
rumbling voice held tragic sorrow and
despair.

Dineen plunged down the trail. The
sound of a shot startled him and he
looked back. On the rock ledge one ape
writhed in death agony a moment, then
limply its body fell from the ledge. Di-
neen heard it crash in the bushes.

Then the other ape squatted and braced
the gun between its feet and placed the
muzzle between its open jaws. Its hand
reached down the gun-barrel to find the
trigger. There was a second report. An
inert mass of hair-covered body slumped
from sight. Dineen ran on.

E xhausted, speechless, Dineen came to
his camp bleeding from leeches, his
feet oat and gashed, his face gray and
grim. He gave the command to go out
and fell into Inbam’s arms. They carried
him in a hammock to the dark river and
canoe. Repentant over deserting him,
Inbam made that trip comfortable and
brought him to the house of Rourke’s na-
tive wife.

For days he lay, nursed by native
women, drinking the bitter herb tea that
combats fever, his body massaged with
scented unguents, his appetite tempted
with delicacies. Rourke’s wife asked no
questions, but - Inbam called daily and
talked with her for hours. Dineen knew
that she heard from Inbam what had
happened in the jungle.

Her house was cool and pleasant, and
in time she tried to amuse Dineen with
her dances, her body sheathed in glitter-
ing metal cloth sewn with little mirrors.
W. T.— 3

She crooned songs and tapped the soft-
voiced bells, and one night she began the
love pantun he had heard roared from
the voice of an ape-man in the jungle.
Dineen started up from his couch pro-
testing.

"Not that song!” he cried aghast.

"No?” she asked, her hands still strok-
ing chimes from the bell-gong. "It is the
song I sang to my man in the night,
Tuan. A song he loved. And it is time
I was doing what must be done.”

"What must you do?” he asked.

"Tuan, the enemy that tortured him
must die. Inbam has told me much, and
you shouted much in the fever which tor-
tured you. Omar Sung Loo shall not con-
tinue his evil magic and fill the jungle
with fear!” Her small body seemed to
grow in height and dignity. Her soft
eyes were black fire.

Dineen protested very little. No white
man can argue a native from a blood feud,
and Dineen had no pity for Omar Sung
Loo or the surgeons who provided his
cages with animal freaks.

With a crash of her hands on the bell-
gong, Rourke’s wife ran to her room and
returned wrapped in a black sarong. She
went from the house and did not return
until just before dawn. She slept that
day like a woman drugged, but the serv-
ants looked after Dineen. That night as
they sat cross-legged at the tiny low table,
she ate little, and again as the moon rose
she went from the house. It was two
days before she returned. Dineen was
wakened by a sound and saw her swaying
as she made her way through the house
to her room.

Then for several days she stayed in the
house and seemed to regain spirits that
had been exhausted on those nights she
was away. A weds passed, and one day
she said to Dineen :

"Tuan, word has been carried to Omar

434

WEIRD TALES

Sung Loo that there is good tiger-hunting
near here. He is coming to trap them.
But you must not leave the house while
he is near."

A weird chill touched Dineen’s flesh.
It was evening, with a red moon like an
old doubloon rising behind the hills and
turning silver. The hot thick scent of
flowers weighted the wind.

"I would like to see a tiger trap him,”
said Dineen.

"Yes, Tuan ”-— her voice held a quiver-
ing vibrance of satisfaction like the pur-
ring of a cat — "but tigers take vengeance
on innocent and guilty men alike. It will
not be safe for you to be abroad.”

"How brave you are,” he said, "to say
the name of the tiger boldly. Your
people always speak of him as' My Lord’.”

He saw her slow smile in the moon-
light.

"Perhaps the Tuan remembers the little
bag of tiger dust my beloved took from
the unmentionable Omar Sung Loo. It
is mine now. Besides, there are tigers
and tigers. Most of them are stupid
beasts intent only on fending for exist-
ence. Has the Tuan heard of the tiger
herhantu ?”

"Ghost tigers!” he said. "I have heard.
Rourke believed in them. I do not. Any-
way, it happens I have never killed a
tiger, so no spirit need take vengeance
on me.”

"Tuan, it is not dead tigers you need
fear. But you will give me the word of
a white Tuan that you will not leave my
house until vengeance is accomplished!”

She swayed before him, sitting on her
heels with her pretty head bent in suppli-
cation. He saw his pearls in a string
around the creamy column of her throat.
A queer fascination caught him as her
head lifted and he looked into the black
fire of her eyes, which slowly brightened
until they were shining amber in the

moonlighted porch. He was ready to
grant her slightest wish; yet his mood was
unaffected by her prettiness as a woman.
She was no longer quite normal. He felt
the burning desire of her vengeance
toward Rourke’s murderer as she rose and
stood before him motionless, then spread
her arms and bent her body as if ded-
icating herself to a mission.

She went from the house, but that night
Dineen sat in a porch chair, dozing and
waking until the dark hour before dawn,
when in the night noises he heard another
sound. Something crept stealthily nearer.
The slanting moonlight showed a long
shape stirring the flower hedge it came
through. He saw a tawny body. Then to
his horror it reared up on its hind legs,
and the two forepaws and velvet-striped
head of a tiger rose above the floor boards
of the porch. He saw its shining green
eyes, its bristling whiskers, its black muz-
zle and white fangs, the long claws
clenched on the floor matting.

As he stared, the tiger head changed.
Like breath blown on hot metal it was
misted and blurred. Before his terrified
gaze the velvet stripes of the head fused
into the blade hair of Rourke’s wife,
framing her amber-tinted face. The tiger
body flowed up the steps, transfusing it-
self into the slender body of the girl,
which stood there shuddering, her black
hair veiling arms that were torn and
scratched. One hand was drawn across
her lips and came away stained darkly.
Then she saw Dineen in the porch chair.

Rage leaped furiously to life in her
tired flesh.

"Tuan, how dare you sleep here?
Long have we nursed you through feVer.
The night chill will bring it on again.”

*Tm not afraid of night chill or ghost
tigers!” he said gently.

He heard a gasping sob as she vanished

TIGER DUST

435

in the house, heard her cot creak as she
dropped on it to sleep.

T hat day Dineen sent for Inbam, who
was plainly reluctant to speak of the
fate of Rourke or the ruse to fetch Omar
Sung Loo tiger-trapping, until Dineen
forced him to talk by mentioning that
Inbam had deserted him in the jungle, a
crime for which the punishment was
severe if complaint was made.

"I shall not interfere with your affairs,
Inbam, but I want some questions

answered. Otherwise ” his tone

held a threat. "Now tell me what became
of the helpers of that Chinese surgeon in
the jungle kampong."

"Tuan, they were killed by a tigress
and the ants have picked their bones.”
"And your kinswoman in this house,
had she a hand in that vengeance, Inbam?”
he asked.

"Of a truth, Tuan, is she not the widow
of a white Tuan the Chinese devils
killed? More I can not answer, except
that what is written, is written.”

"Where does Rourke’s widow go by
night, Inbam?”

"Tuan, I dare not follow her to know.”
"But you know where she goes, In-
bam.”

"Tuan, I know only that what is writ-
ten, is written!”

"Where is Omar Sung Loo, Inbam?”
"Word comes that he is on his way to
trap tigers and should be here soon.”

The widow slept all that day. Intrigued
and curious about her, Dineen came to
her couch and stood looking down
through the mosquito-netting. An im-
pulse prompted him to hum the love pan-
tun softly. Hearing it in her sleep, she
stirred and sighed and began to murmur
words. Dineen listened shamelessly.

"Beloved . . . five have I killed. . . .
I- leaped from the gloom. My fangs

gripped and shook them. A golden
death all too merciful for such dogs.
They were his men, Beloved. . . . And I
have his scent. Your murderer shall not
escape long.”

D ineen went quietly away and sat
brooding on the mysterious and un-
canny problem until tiffin, bat the widow
did not appear. He finally went to bed
but lay awake, and as the moon sailed
high he was aware of her soundless glid-
ing to the door and into the flower hedge.
He followed and found the black sarong
she had left there. He had slept that
afternoon and had no difficulty staying
awake until the hour she returned. From
inside the house he watched again until
he heard the soft thud of bounding paws
and distinctly saw by a moon late enough
to leave its frail ghost by dawnlight, the
striped body of the tigress transformed as
it glided over the porch, into the body of
Rourke’s widow. He saw the startling
green glow of her eyes as she went to
her room. That morning he stood beside
her again and saw the change in her ap-
pearance. She had been a dainty, per-
fumed creature. Now her face was
haggard, her amber-colored flesh was
scratched, her nails were broken and
grimed, and about her was the fetid odor
of the great carnivore’s breath, faint yet
distinct.

As he watched, her body moved,
stretched and curled again like a cat, and
her fingers flexed and spread like daws.
Dineen touched her wrist. Without a
movement her eyes opened their glowing
green fire; yet in the light the iris nar-
rowed to a thin slit of emerald flame.
Her head rubbed against his arm, and like
a kitten her tongue licked at his hand.

He jerked back and spoke sharply.
Blood oozed to the surface of the skin her
tongue had rasped. Then he regretted

436

WEIRD TALES

speaking, for she wakened fully, and he
saw she was bewildered, and shuddered
convulsively, moaning a little.

"I dreamed, Tuan! I dreamed I was
caught in a trap!”

"Then take warning,” he said gently.
"Leave vengeance to the gods.” Then,
ashamed cf a speech that betrayed his
own weak slipping into a belief in this
dreadful metempsychosis, he left her
abruptly, thinking it was high time he
cleared out and went back to the haunts
of his own logical-minded race.

"Tomorrow I leave,” he announced to
her late that afternoon.

She did not demur, and as usual dis-
appeared as the moon rose. As before,
he waited until dawn, but this time his
vigil was fruitless. She did not return.
Remembering that she sometimes stayed
away for a few days, he was not alarmed
until Inbam came running in the noonday
heat when no native willingly stirs abroad.
He was greatly upset and excited and al-
most incoherent as he blurted out the
news that Omar Sung Loo had trapped a
splendid tigress and was shipping her
back to his kampong.

"Tuan, you must buy this tigress and
set it free,” wailed Inbam. "I tried to
buy it. I offered all I possessed and all
my kinsfolk possessed, but he will not
sell. Tuan, he trapped the tigress with
bags of white dust he scattered, a magic
powder that made her forget her cunning
and roll in it like a cub at play. But she
must be freed, Tuan. Buy her. By your
hope of Paradise, you must free this
tigress.”

Dineen leaned forward in his chair,
staring at the agonized Inbam.

"Why should I set this tigress free?”
he demanded.

"By the spirit of Tuan Rourke who was
your friend, you must. Tuan, it is past
the belief of a white Tuan. But the ti-

gress is my kinswoman, the wife of Tuan
Rourke!"

"Nonsense,” shouted Dineen. "You
lie to me!”

"Tuan, I speak truth. She is a tigress
ber bantu. A ghost tigress.”

"Then why should cage bars hold her,
Inbam?”

"Tuan, it is that magic tiger dust of
Omar Sung Loo drugging her senses. She
lies contented licking it, rolling in the
dirty straw, she who loved perfumes and
silks and jewels. Tuan, see her and know
if I lie to you. She wears the pearls you
gave her on her neck!”

Dineen laughed harshly. These night-
mares were sending him mad. Reason
was tottering. He would get out at
once. Inbam agreed to go with him, but
when they started from the village they
learned that Omar Sung Loo had gone,
the tigress was on her way to his kam-
pong. Driven now by a desire to see the
finish of the affair, Dineen followed. The
lumbering cage on cart-wheels, drawn by
carabaos, was somewhere on the river
road, but Dineen took a boat and some
time in the night he passed it.

H e waited in the village until word
came that Omar Sung Loo had re-
turned. Then with a loaded gun in his
pocket he went to the kampong.

Omar Sung Loo stood at the gate and
barred his way belligerently. Smirking
and defiant, he said he had nothing for
sale.

"You captured a tigress. I will buy
her,” said Dineen.

"She is not for sale, Tuan. Down her
black throat has gone more of my magic
powder than she is worth. Yet I have an
affection for the beast and will not sell
her.”

"Let me see her!” Dineen's gun poked
the belly of Omar Sung Loo and his finger

TIGER DUST

437 ,

curved on the trigger. The dealer
snarled and backed toward the kampong
where the tigress lay in her cage on dirty
jungle grass, her tongue lolling thirstily,
her eyes glowing green with hate and
fear. She crouched and snarled as Omar
Sung Loo came near, and her lithe paw
reached through the bars.

Dineen held Omar Sung Loo in a corner
by the cage, with his gun still indenting
the brown skin. The cries of Omar fell
on heedless ears. Dineen began to whis-
tle, then to sing the tune of the love pan-
tun he had heard Rourke’s wife sing, and
again heard roared from the throat of a
bull ape in the jungle.

The effect on the tigress was startling.
She lifted her head and roared. She
worked herself into a fury and her long
claws tore splinters from the cage bars.
Then she went into a flurry that made the
wooden crate creak and strain. Omar
screeched in fear, his defiance was gone.

"Tuan, she was kept without food or
water, but the cage bars can not hold her
how. They are breaking!”

It was true. Two of the bars were
gone. The head of the tigress and one
foreleg came through. Omar Sung Loo's
shaking fingers grabbed a sack of tiger
dust from his loin-rag and he tried to
loosen the string.

The tigress leaped to earth, and came
toward them, her great pads stepping de-

liberately, daintily, but she was snarling
her rage. Fear-stricken, Omar shook the
sack of tiger dust, but a hot wind carried
it high in air, over the pond. His scream
was pitiful, but it was cut short as the
tigress leaped.

Dineen whirled as he saw the animal’s
jaws fasten on the neck of Omar, and she
shook him like a rat. His body fell and
lay still, blood pulsing from his neck into
the dust. Over him the tigress stood, her
ears laid back, snarling at Dineen. He
saw her body flatten, her muscles gathered
to leap.

There came the quick staccato of gun-
shots and the beautiful beast dropped
slowly over the body of the man she had
killed.

Dineen darted toward the gate. There
he halted to look back. He stared, rubbed
his eyes and retraced his steps. A cry of
near madness came from his lips.

In the sun-baked kampong dust lay the
dead Omar Sung Loo, face down, and
over his shoulders was the amber-tinted
body of a woman. Blood drained like
scarlet ribbons from the bullet wounds in
her breast. About her neck was the string
of small pearls he had given the wife of
Tom Rourkel But it seemed to him her
lips smiled and in her partly opened eyes
was a look of triumph slowly dimming as
they glazed hr the chill of death.

"I clutched Madeleine in my
arms, and faced the monster."

eturn of

Balkis

By E. HOFFMANN PRICE

A thrill-tale of modern sorcery, of murder and fight-
ing and sudden death, and the return from
the shadows of the ancient Queen of

“"M M" Y FRIEND,” began Pierre d’Ar-
IVI tois abruptly, one evening a
"*■ few days after my arrival in
Bayonne, "you have heard that two
women can not occupy one house without
discord, have you not?” ,,

As he spoke, he thrust aside the un-
tasted glass of vieux armagnac at which
he had been staring.

"Eh, what’s that?” I demanded. He
had caught me off guard, and at loss for
438

the proper response to what seemed the
opening remarks of a discussion of wife
versus mother-in-law: an odd topic, since,
happily, it could at the best be only aca-
demic as far as either Pierre or I was con-
cerned. "Well, now that you mention it,
doubtless the situation has its trying fea-
tures. But ”

"Alors,” continued d’ Artois, "what if
two women are seeking to occupy the same
body?”

THE RETURN OF BALKIS

439

"Good Lord, Pierre!" I began. "This is
too thick. Two women in the same body?”

But I could not hurdle it, even with a
running start.

"Yes. Exactly that,” affirmed Pierre.
"Madeleine’s personality is splitting. An
intruder from across the Border is taking
possession of her.”

D’Artois was referring to the daughter
of his old friend, Andre Delorme. Her
presence in Pierre’s house had been a sur-
prize to me, particularly since d’ Artois in
his letter of a week ago, inviting me from
Bordeaux, had said nothing about his ex-
pecting a decidedly charming guest from
the States to enliven my visit.

"An intruder from across the Border?”
I said, groping for my wits.

The idea was hard to assimilate. But I
had noticed something strange about Ma-
deleine Delorme. She was colorfully
charming, despite the swiftly changing
moods that had baffled and disconcerted
me; yet there was a suggestion of the un-
canny.

"Now that you mention it,” I contin-
ued, "it did seem as though some second
personality was regarding me from her
eyes. At times their expression was very
old, and absolutely alien. Could that be
what you mean?”

"For a fact, that is exactly what I
mean,” assured d’ Artois.

" 'Some one is trying to crowd me out
of myself,’ she said to me a few days
before your arrival. 'I dare not relax. Not
for a moment. It is waiting and ready,
lurking beside me. It is gaining in strength.
At times I feel that I am some one else.
I’m afraid to leave the house. It might
take possession of me, and lead me — oh,
good God, but where might it not lead
me?’

"Alors, I had her leave the pension
where she was staying, and move into my
house, where I could observe her. I

thought at first that it was a hysterical
fancy. But one night I saw. Then I
knew.”

D’Artois paused. I wondered what it
could have been that he had seen. There
are vaults and passages far beneath the
ancient city that for centuries have been
lost to the memory of those who daily
throng the arcades of rue Pont Neuf, and
the narrow tortuous length of rue d’Es-
pagne. Something archaic and malignant
was whispering from the blacknesses of
those unhallowed mazes. It had spoken to
Madeleine, and she had heard.

Bayonne is ancient, somnolent, fantastic
as a hasheesh dream, and as strangely
beautiful when of a morning the gray
walls and battlements of the citadel are
afloat on the low-hanging river mists, and
the cathedral spires reach into the early
light like long slim lance-heads. But at
night the blacknesses of the crypts far
below the level of the moat that girdles
the city begin their murmuring: and Ma-
deleine had listened too long.

"But see for yourself,” continued d’ Ar-
tois. "We will watch in her room. It will
return. It is growing strong in its suc-
cess ”

"Who will return?” I demanded, as I
followed him up the winding staircase.
"What manner of thing, or presence, is
haunting her?”

"See, and you will know,” evaded
Pierre, as he led the way down the hall.

D’Artois tapped gently at Madeleine's
door.

"She is asleep,” he said in a low voice.
"But let us go in.”

M adeleine lay under the canopy of a
great four-poster bed. The moon-
light filtering in through the bars of the
window and between the heavy drapes
caressed her faultless shoulders and gra-
ciously curved throat, and lost itself in

440

WEIRD TALES

the twining midnight of her hair. She
was lovely, this Madfeleine Delorme.

And something was crowding her out
of her own body! The thought was out-
rageous. But I remembered other and
equally incredible things that had taken
place in Bayonne, and could not doubt
Pierre’s ominous words. And certainly I
could not question his sincerity.

D’Artois nudged me, and gestured
toward a chair.

"Seat yourself,” he whispered. “Wait
and you will see.”

We sat there in the shadows. I won-
dered what specter from the dark back-
ground of that old city would appear to
make good Pierre’s ominous words. I
heard the silvery chime of the cathedral
clock striking eleven. I relaxed. It . . .
whatever it would be . . . would not ap-
pear until midnight.

But I was wrong. I became aware of a
subtle, poison sweetness that permeated
the room. And in the darkness to the left
of the moonbeams that marched slowly
across the floor, I saw a shimmering phos-
phorescence that elongated, and spread,
and took form. It was at first so tenuous
that I could distinguish the mantelpiece
looming out of the shadows behind it.
The odor in the room was becoming more
intense. It was like the aroma of embalm-
ing spices from some desecrated sarcopha-
gus, but infinitely more pungent. The
luminous ha ze was something from a
tomb, or worse. Even as I watched,
drugged by that spectral sweetness, the
silvery mist became substantial. It as-
sumed a definite form.

It was a woman of surpassingly gracious
figure. She wore on her head a tall, curi-
ously wrought diadem. As she turned to
face us, I saw that her features were lovely
with an evil beauty. Her smile was a
curved sinister mockery. Her lips moved,
but I could distinguish no sound.

Neither d' Artois nor I stirred. I doubt
even that we breathed. We sat there,
watching that shadowy, diabolical beauty
return our stare. Then she noiselessly ap-
proached Madeleine’s bed, moving with
an undulant, serpentine grace. She bent
over the sleeping girl, and made weaving
passes with her slender hands.

Madeleine stirred, and murmured in
her sleep, and made a gesture as if to re-
pel the presence. She half rose and sup-
ported herself on her elbow. Then as she
sank back among her pillows, her gesture
became one of despair and weariness, and
resignation. Her deep sigh was the only
sound in the terrible, haunted silence of
that room.

I saw a misty vapor rising from her
half -parted lips. It floated, and spread
like cigarette smoke in a room whose air
is utterly still.

"Pardieu!” muttered d’ Artois. "She de-
fies us to our teeth!”

He rose from his chair, and advanced a
pace.

"Balkis, Queen of the Morning, get
you back to the shadows whence you
came!” he commanded in a low, tense
voice. "Back to the shadows, Balkis, and
confuse him who disturbed your rest.”

The presence ceased her gestures. She
stood erect, and regarded Pierre with eyes
burning with fury. She advanced a pace
toward him. But instead of retreating,
d’ Artois took another stride toward that
spectral presence. The air became tense
from the silent conflict of Pierre’s will and
the resentment of that ghostly beauty. For
an instant it seemed that she was becom-
ing more substantial, and was poised,
ready to claw him in her imperious, un-
spoken wrath.

D’Artois advanced another pace, almost
within arm’s reach, and confronted her,
eye to eye. He feared neither man nor
devil, that fierce old soldier.

THE RETURN OF BALKIS

441

Then he spoke solemnly in a sonorous
language that reminded me of Arabic. His
voice was low, but the syllables rolled like
the surge of a distant surf. As he intoned,
he extended his hand in a gesture of com-
mand. The presence became more and
more tenuous, and retreated. It became a
vague fleck of luminescence that paled
in the slowly shifting moonlight; and in
another moment it vanished.

I heard Pierre’s sharply exhaled breath,
and saw his shoulders droop wearily. The
tension in the room eased abruptly. And
then I noted that Madeleine no longer ex-
haled the misty vapor that had been pass-
ing between her lips.

H e turned. Trembling violently, I
followed him from the room. Under
the light in the hall, I could see that his
features were drawn and haggard, and that
his eyes burned with a fierce light. He too
was trembling; not from fright, but from
the effort of will which he had exerted in
defying the lovely, spectral presence.

"For God’s sake, what was it?” I finally
ventured to ask, speaking in a whisper.
"Will it stay away?”

' That is what is seeking to take pos-
session of her,” replied d’ Artois. "And it
will not stay away, if he who sent it
chooses to make it return.” *

"What is it?” I repeated. "A ghost?”
"In a way, yes,” he said, "but no honest
ghost walking of its own accord. It is a
presence conjured up by some necromanc-
er, and sent to possess her. And though I
have driven her away tonight, she will re-
turn tomorrow night, and the one there-
after, until she has accomplished her end.
I ordered her to leave. I used no formula
other than that of solemn command. It
was my will against that damnable shade
from across the Border.”

"But who is she?” I asked, still dazed
by the apparition, and by the glare of
deadly hatred she had turned on us.

"Balkis, Queen of the Morning,” said
d’ Artois, "and having been aroused from
her sleep, she is struggling eagerly to take
the body that her damnable ally has
sought for her to inhabit. And we can
not stop her. True, I drove the presence
away. But I must have a better weapon
than my unaided will, or in the end, when
I am exhausted, she will return, and final-
ly take full possession.” -

"Good God, Pierre, that’s terrible!” I
exclaimed, horrified at the thought of a
woman’s soul being crowded out of her
own body.

"But how do you know that this ap-
parition is Balkis? And why did you call
her Queen of the Morning?”

"I judged by her costume. And at times
Madeleine in her speech gropes for
words, as though she had forgotten the
languages she speaks, or forgot what she
intended to say. And then she drops a
few foreign words, starts, corrects her-
self. And those foreign words were in
that long-forgotten dialect spoken by the
Sabeans. Judge for yourself. Balkis lurks
in the body of Madeleine, and even dur-
ing the day asserts herself.

"But that in itself proves nothing, you
understand,” d’ Artois continued. "This,
however, does: when I called her Balkis,
Queen of the Morning, and addressed
her in her own language, she obeyed me.
That title is a play on the Arabic word
that designated her ancient kingdom.”

I pondered on this for a moment, then
resumed my questions.

"But can’t some one drive her away,
and keep her away?” I demanded.
"Haven’t the clergy some ritual of exor-
cism, or has that been discarded in this
day and age? I notice you didn’t follow
the old traditional sign-of-the-cross for-
mula.”

"There is nothing essentially evil about
Balkis,” explained Pierre. "She is only a

442

WEIRD TALES

woman whom some evil person has called
from her grave. And a Christian exor-
cism would be as meaningless to her as it
would be to a Hottentot. She never heard
of such a thing. It would be utter vanity.

"An occult knowledge more profound
than that possessed by any one in France
is required,” he continued. "I know of
only one person who has it, and I have
sent for him. He is a darwish, one of
those eccentric mendicants who preserve
the occult traditions of the Orient. He is
an adept.

"With his assistance, we may succeed, if
in the meanwhile Madeleine does not
become entirely possessed. Sitting and
watching her will be futile. To expel
Balkis by the unaided will is a terrific
task, and no sooner is it accomplished
than she presently returns, and in no wise
discouraged.”

The mere announcement of the pres-
ence of our spectral guest would have
been sufficiently disconcerting; but actual-
ly to have seen her was too much for my
comfort. Yet I finally slept, thanks to a
half-pint of Pierre’s vieux armagnac. It
burned like the everlasting fires, but it
drugged my wrenched nerves. Dead
royalty in the house, visible or invisible, is
not an effective sedative.

M adeleine spent most of the follow-
ing day in her room. And charming
as she was, I was glad that she remained
out of sight. Her presence would have
been disconcerting. I would have won-
dered whether Madeleine or her ghostly
companion looked at me from those lus-
trous, almond-shaped eyes. The appari-
tion of the previous night accounted for
the indefinable foreign expression of her
features. It was the spiritual intrusion of
Balkis, leaving its imprint, bit by bit. And
those successive visitations would be
branded on her brain so that in the end,

Madeleine Delorme would be thinking
the thoughts and pondering on the age-
old memories of dead Balkis.

We sat again in Pierre’s study. The
evening ritual of cigars and coffee and
liqueur was somber and unrelieved by
the scintillant d' Artois conversation and
esprit that in the past had made him the
perfect host. He was staring at the pat-
tern of the Boukhara rug, and absently
lifting a demi-tasse to his lips.

I heard the sharp crack of a pistol, the
shattering of the cup, a tinkle of glass,
and the solid chunk of something striking
the woodwork behind him.

"The devil!” exclaimed d’ Artois, div-
ing to the floor. "We are under fire!”

I snatched the cord that drew the heavy
damask drapes away from the windows,
letting them close and mask the opening.

"Some one,” said Pierre, "resents my
expelling Balkis last night. Ah . . «
there’s where it landed.”

With his penknife, d’ Artois dug into
the door-jamb and extracted a bullet.

"Probably a Luger,” he muttered as he
studied the jacketed missile. "And, thank
God, a bungler fired the shot. My friend,
they are hunting us. They see that we are
keeping her, and that though they accom-
plish their devilish aims, it will avail them
nothing. Resurrected queens may disturb
one’s mind, but they do not fire pistols
and shoot a demi-tasse from one’s lips.”
Pierre seated himself, and pondered.
His brow was cleft by a triple-furrowed
frown, and he twisted his fierce gray mus-
tache. Then, finally, he spoke.

"Some one has prepared Madeleine
for this outrage, and has overcome her
will, so that when she is asleep she can
not any'longer deny the ghostly intruder
that would inhabit her body. And that
one, pardieu, is the person we must find.
Somewhere in this town is a necromancer
whose terrible studies have led him to

THE RETURN OF BALKIS

443

this outrage. Some one has called Balkis
from the shadows of twenty-eight dusty
centuries. She has not appeared of her
own volition. This wasted bullet bears
witness to her living sponsor."

He paused for a moment, regarded
me intently, and continued in a low,
tense voice, "Some necrophile is enam-
ored of the Queen of the Morning, and
wishes to give her a new body.”

"Necrophile?” I shuddered at the hid-
eous implication. "But that would sig-
nify ”

"That is hair-splitting,” d’Artois in-
terrupted. "Whether this one be in love
with the very body of dead Balkis, or
whether, as in the present case, it is her
spirit for which he seeks a living body,
he is still a necrophile. And this, while
less horrible to contemplate than that
which you had in mind, is really a greater
outrage, since it is directed against a
person who would much rather be her-
self than any number of departed queens.
Mordieu! And rightly so!

"We know now that we have men as
well as a phantom to combat. This wild
shot has betrayed the nature of the enemy,
and we shall track down this lover of
dead Balkis. And then, when that old
darwish appears — I cabled the consuls
and Residents of every port in whose
hinterland he might be — he will expel
Balkis and she will swallow her rage and
go back to her disturbed sleep, to dream
once more of Suleiman.

"Do you, therefore, v/atch by her room.
Do not fear the presence if it appears.
For it is constantly here, whether visible
or not. If anything substantial enough
to handle a pistol or knife appears, draw
and fire. With the full moon, you may
enjoy excellent shooting!"

Pierre’s gray eyes had a steely glitter,
and he spoke now with his old vivacity.
That bullet which had picked the demi-

tasse from his very lips had immeasurably
encouraged him.

"We will hunt him down, pardieu!”
he exclaimed. "And in the meanwhile,
we will divide the watches of the night.
Take your post, and your choice of pis-
tols. I will relieve you at midnight. And
until then, I will be busy with some de-
ductions of my own. While we are
awaiting the arrival of our excellent dar-
wish, we may find that accursed lover
of dead queens, and he will regret his
poor marksmanship. Sdaud! I will not
miss!”

I selected a pistol from Pierre’s ar-
senal, and took my post in the hall-
way, just outside Madeleine’s door. I
knew that her windows were barred, and
that nothing larger than a cat could slip
through. And being on the second floor,
it would require exceptionally clever work
for an intruder to steal in and make away
with her. The sawing or forcing of the
bars, moreover, would betray him, then
and there.

This, however, did not lull me into a
sense of false security. The knowledge
that in the room beyond the door, Balkis
might be bending over Madeleine, and
with ceremonious gestures and passes be
commanding her spirit to leave its body,
was sufficient to keep me from becoming
sleepy, or negligent in my watch. I paced
up and down the carpeted hallway. Yet
it was an eery vigil, and I forced myself
to cease visioning that sinister, shadowy
presence that Pierre had confronted the
night before. At times, I fancied that I
could again smell the subtle sweetness
that had heralded the materialization of
dead Balkis.

There was a window at the end of the
hallway. I glanced out, occasionally, and
saw nothing but the light of a full moon.
But the black shadows seemed alive with
emanations filtering from the ancient, un-

444

•WEIRD TALES

disturbed soil of the citadel. A conclave
of evil was abetting Balkis. This house
had become a focal point of entities that
the power of some necromancer had re-
leased in summoning Balkis from the
dust. I entered the vacant room that ad-
joined Madeleine’s. It was the one that
her maid had occupied before leaving
in terror one night after having seen the
apparition. Like Madeleine’s, it faced
the tree-clustered parkway that extended
from the gray walls and moat toward the
highway that leads to ruined Chateau
Maracq.

I looked down into the deserted street
that ran along the city wall. Once I
thought I could see a figure lurking in
an angle of the parapet. And then it
seemed after all to be only a wisp of
river mist, or perhaps a whirling of wind-
blown dust. But I started, stared for an
instant, and shivered, for even the dust
of this ancient town is alive and vibrant
with that which it has received and as-
similated since mediaeval sorcerers and
alchemists crouched shuddering over
their terribly charged alembics that bub-
bled and dripped strange distillates, and
fumed in the red glare of charcoal fur-
naces.

But that dust cloud or fog wisp could
not reach to the second story. So I re-
turned again to the hall, to walk my post.

I heard Pierre stirring about in the
study on the first floor. He commanded
the entrance of the house. Then later, I
heard him exclaim and mutter. Some
late visitor, I thought, as the door opened.
And then . . .

I heard a gasp, and a groan, and the
thud of a falling body and the splintering
of wood.

"Sucre nom d’un nom!" I heard Pierre
exclaim.

That was enough. They were taking
us by assault. As I bounded down die

winding stairway, three steps at a time,
I drew my pistol.

Another crash, and a splintering of
glass, and the smack of a pistol.

"Hold ’em, Pierre!” I shouted. And
an instant later, I landed with a leap in
the vestibule. A man lay stretched out
on the floor. Pierre was struggling with
another, seeking to wrench from his
hand a long, curved knife. A third,
groaning and cursing, was reaching for
a pistol that lay beyond his grasp. Just
as d’ Artois back-heeled his adversary and
sent him crashing into a comer, I opened
up with my pistol. The gentleman on
the floor lost all interest in the weapon
he sought.

"Back to your post, imbecile!" d’ Artois
yelled, as he turned to face me. "See if
they are attacking the second floor.”

"But the windows ”

"Back to your post! Immediately!"

As I turned to obey, I heard another
crash, and saw d’ Artois following me.
The yard-long blade of a Moro kampilan
flashed as he leaped after me, carrying
the weapon at the port.

W E burst into Madeleine’s room.

Pierre’s intuition had been right.
In the moonlight we saw three intrud-
ers. Two of them were about to take
Madeleine from her bed. The third with
a gesture was indicating the window, I
saw that the bars had been wrenched
aside, and caught a glimpse of a rope
ladder, apparently let down from the
roof.

As we leaped into the room, the leader
shouted a warning, and Madeleine’s cap-
tors dropped her to the bed from which
they were lifting her. A pistol cracked.
I saw Pierre flinch from the. impact, but
the shot did not stop him. His blade
flashed forward and up, ripping his
enemy from waist to chin.

As I turned to let drive at the one who

THE RETURN OF BALKIS

445

was leaping across Madeleine’s bed,
knife in hand, a fourth, emerging from
a corner, struck my arm. My shot went
wild; and then my pistol jammed as I
whirled about to fire at the assailant from
the side. A blade raked my ribs, and in
another instant I was grappling hand to
hand with the newcomer, striving to
brain him with my clubbed pistol, and
to avoid his curved knife.

We crashed to the floor. Luckily, it
was his head and not mine that was
dashed against the massive leg of Made-
leine’s bed. I rapped the useless pistol
against his skull for good measure, and
staggered to my feet.

D’ Artois, blade in hand, was facing
the two survivors. One was poised to
leap and thrust with his knife. The
other, pistol rising from his hip, was
ready to drop d’ Artois.

One of them would be sliced in half
by that yard-long kampilan. One of
them was a dead man. But the other
would account for d’ Artois as I hurdled
the bed to close in, hand to hand. Neither
thrust nor shot could miss at that range.

There was but one thing to do. I
hurled my jammed pistol at the one about
to fire. I missed. It crashed into a mir-
ror. I had failed d’ Artois.

Then, during that despairing instant
in which I leaped, empty-handed and
too late, it happened.

I saw an incredibly swift, fluent flash
of steel, and a spurt of fire; heard a grunt,
a shot, a yell of mortal terror, and once
more the sound of steel biting home.

Pierre, poised and tense in his mo-
ment of extreme peril, had lunged as
the shivering of the glass distracted the
enemy’s attention, and slashed asunder
the one who fired, an instant too late.
Then, cat-like, he whirled about to cut
down the survivor.

All in a glance, I saw him, knife still

clutched, sink to the floor. The kampilan,
wedged in the bones of the hip, was
pulled from Pierre’s grasp.

D’ Artois sighed, tottered, and leaned
against the bed-post.

Of the two, I was the most shaken, as
spectators usually are,

"Christ, Pierre!” I exclaimed. I had
to say something. "You’d make a won-
derful jurmentado! But did that first
shot get you?”

"Only a scratch,” he assured. "The
second missed entirely.”

He shook his head, and regarded the
two at his feet.

"They should have died in good
spirits," he muttered, "knowing how
close they came to taking the hide of
Pierre d’ Artois. And that shot, earlier
this evening — mordieu! Some one is
cursing his poor marksmanship.

"That attack at the front door,” he
continued, "was undoubtedly a ruse to
draw you from your post. As for the
window — look!”

He indicated the bars that had been
wrenched aside.

"Those were sawed in advance of the
attempt. All of which confirms my sus-
picions. We are contending with more
than ghosts. This necromancer has a well
organized crew Of cutthroats, who ”

"Good Lord,” I interrupted, "she's
not even awakened by all this rioting.”

"No,” replied d’ Artois. "Nor is that
strange. My guess — tu comprends, it is
but a guess — is that Madeleine has been
carefully prepared for this outrage. Some
one has hypnotized her and impressed
upon her mind certain commands which
she executes without knowing why.”

"But how could she be hypnotized,
and not know it?” I wondered. "Did
she mention ”

"That is simple,” explained d’ Artois,
"He could order her to forget it, and all

446

WEIRD TALES

else bat the commands he wants her to
remember. But give me a hand, and we
will heave this carrion into the court-
yard.”

One by one we dragged the intruders
to the window and heard them drop to
the paving below.

"In the morning,” said Pierre, "I will
have new bars set into the window. Bet-
ter yet, we will move her into another
room, although that will in all proba-
bility not fool them. And then I must
report this skirmish to the police. It
will be embarrassing, but I think that I
can convince Monsieur le Prefel, without
his having to listen to any talk about a
queen loitering about the house.”

Then, as I followed him down the
stairway, "Those I left scattered about
down below must also be disposed of.”

But as we entered the vestibule, we
saw not a sign of those that d’ Artois had
struck down.

He stared at me for an instant, and
frowned.

"One would think from this, mon
vieux, that we were indeed under close
observation. Even as we fought up there,
some one hauled the casualties away. Do
you, therefore, sleep, and I will stand
watch the rest of the night. While an-
other attempt is not at all likely, it would
be best to take no chances.”

And though the events of the eve-
ning did not tend to promote sound
sleep, I did better than the previous night.
Nevertheless, I was up shortly after sun-
rise.

I found d’ Artois sitting on the balcony
overlooking the moat, and the rolling
parkway below. Raoul was serving cof-
fee.

"My friend,” said d’ Artois as I greet-
ed him, “I will allow you no more than
three of those guesses. What happened

while you snored so melodiously to keep
me awake on my post?”

"Good Lord, Pierre!” I exclaimed,
fearing the worst. "Surely, they didn't
return and ”

"They did indeed return, and ”

He laughed outright at my dismay,
then continued, "And take away those
we heaved into the court. Under my
nose, par dieu, or while you and I surveyed
the wreckage in my study. But they
asked for no more steel!” he concluded
with a grim smile, and a twist of his
fierce gray mustache.

Then, as an afterthought, "But this
enemy is no incompetent bungler, de-
spite his poor marksmanship.”

As I sipped my coffee, and digested
Pierre’s last remark, I glanced down rue
Lachepaillet. The street extends from
the citadel commandant’s headquarters,
along the city wall, to the guardhouse at
the Porte d’Espagne drawbridge. An old
man was striding jauntily up the grade.
His white beard streamed in the morn-
ing breeze. He wore an Arab's burnoose,
and headkerchief. The hilt of a simitar
peeped over his shoulder, and his belt
bristled with daggers.

A frown wrinkled his scar-seamed
forehead as he halted and regarded the
number over the front door.

"Pierre,” I said, "it seems we have a
visitor.”

D’ Artois thrust aside his coffee, and
glanced down from (he balcony.

"Hold. 1 Nureddin!” he hailed.

"Ya Pierre!” shouted the old fellow,
as he looked up and recognized d’ Artois.

The ensuing sputter of Arabic was too
fast for my ear. And then d’ Artois, after
hesitating for a moment at the balcony
railing, decided the leap was too great
for his years, and dashed down the stairs
to admit his visitor.

"Ya sidi,“ said the old man, as Pierre

THE RETURN OF BALKIS

447

seized his hand, "the British Resident at
Aden sought me out in the desert and
gave me your message. And behold, I
am here, el hamdu lilahi!”

"And I also praise God, my good
friend, ’ ’ exclaimed d’ Artois devoutly. And
then, "Raoul! Coffee!”

Turning to me, Pierre continued, "This
is Nureddin, a holy darwish with whom
I have had dealings in the past.”

The old fellow grinned, nodded, and
said, "By the bounty of Allah, I am in-
deed a pious recluse, but my friend
Pierre summoned me from my medita-
tions.”

He made the last part of his declara-
tion solemnly; but the twinkle in his keen
old eyes convinced me that his holiness
had been considerably diluted of late.

"There were no vessels, and I was in
a hurry,” he continued. "So in my de-
spair, I approached the crew of a zaroug
lying at anchor. I gave them various
presents. We threw the nakhoda over-
board, with the help of Allah, and set
sail.”

And then Raoul served coffee. Nured-
din’s piety did not keep him from relish-
ing the brandy that Raoul had added.

This wrinkled old reprobate from the
hinterland of Aden must be the ally that
Pierre had summoned, relying on past
friendship to bring him in such haste.
Piracy, it seemed, was a new accomplish-
ment, for as he sipped his coffee, he re-
peated with gusto how with the help of
God they had thrown the captain over-
board, and sailed up the Red Sea.

"We were not far from the shore,
sidi,” he added, "and the dog refused a
fair offer I made him. My crew? Wallah,
they will remain in the zaroug. Eight
stout Dankalis. Wild men from behind
Djibouti. The voyage kept them busy,
but lying here in idleness, they will doubt-
less cut each other to pieces ”

"Say you so, my friend?” interrupted
d' Artois. "I will give them cutting in
good measure.”

Nureddin’s eyes brightened.

"Praise God!” he ejaculated devoutly.
"But I saw no camels in the public square
this morning, and I feared that there

were no caravans to rob ”

"There are none,” admitted Pierre.
"But we have better game for you. And
as for your Dankalis, let them make camp
in the courtyard. I have work for the
good fellows.”

"In that case, my lord,” replied the
old darwish, "I will get them at once.”
And Nureddin, striking light to a
cigarette, strode briskly to the door, and
thence down rue Lachepaillet.

“TI There,” I demanded, "did you
W find him?”

"That is Nureddin, the darwish,” said

Pierre. "A pious and holy man ”

"Holy, hell!” I exclaimed. "Then I’m
a cardinal.”

"Despite his occasional trifling with
caravans, he is, according to his own
standards, a pious and holy man,” d’ Ar-
tois insisted. "He robs only heretic Per-
sians ”

"And dumps the nakhoda over the
side, as his debut in piracy,” I interrupted.

"Tiens!" scoffed Pierre. "He was in a
hurry on my account. As I said, the good
fellow is versed in occult sciences. He
has even been in that lost city Madinat
ash-Shams, far beyond the ruins ofMareb.
He, if any one, can get to the bottom of
this matter. Be of good cheer, my friend.
This accursed pack of devil-mongers will
have the crimp put in their style!”

D’ Artois was enormously cheered by
the arrival of his strange ally. I could
see that he had shaken off the burden of
despair that had weighed him down ever
since my arrival in Bayonne.

448

WEIRD TALES

In order to thwart a repetition of the
previous night’s raid, we decided to con-
tinue our watch. The power that was
reaching forth to clutch Madeleine had
become stronger. Her eyes had become
strange in expression, and regarded us
with curiosity mingled with resentment.
Her slow, enigmatic smile made us shud-
der from its resemblance to the shadowy
Balkis whom Pierre had commanded to
leave, that night that we had seen the
apparition. And then, once in a while,
we caught flashes of Madeleine herself,
bewildered, and dazed, and strange in
her own body. Her gestures had become
undulant and serpentine. It was terrify-
ing to watch Madeleine being rapidly
thrust into the background by the invader.
She was lovelier, perhaps, than she had
been, but it was a dismaying beauty that
came from the grave of Balkis.

Happily, she was awake but little of
the day. And shortly after sunset, she
fell into a deep sleep.

"Watch her closely, my friend,” said
Pierre. "Do not relax from your vigi-
lance even for a moment. Nureddin and
I will divide the watches with you. Be-
ware of any trickery to distract you. Call
me if you should become drowsy — no
matter how early it may be, call me at
once.”

I n view of the strategy employed by
the enemy in the attack of the pre-
ceding night, I took my post in Made-
leine’s room. I examined the window-
bars, and noted that they had not been
tampered with. And regardless of what-
ever disturbance I might hear from be-
low, I resolved not to quit my post. With
Pierre, and the old Arab, Nureddin, and
the crew of Dankalis from the zaroug,
any handful of cutthroats that the un-
known devil-monger might send would
meet an adequate reception committee.

It was utterly inconceivable, a woman’s
being crowded out of her own body; yet
Madeleine had actually become another
person. When, during her waking mo-
ments, Nureddin had succeeded in ca-
joling her from her haughty silence, she
had addressed him in what the darwish
declared was the language of the ancient
Sabeans.

The classic example of the illiterate
servant-girl’s reciting long passages of
Hebraic which she had overheard her
master, a philologist, declaiming did not
apply to Madeleine. The servant in the
delirium of fever recited, whereas Made-
leine conversed. The distinction and the
logical inference were painfully obvious.

Balkis the Queen remembered that her
people, the Sabeans, were cousins of the
Arabs, and she recognized the kinship
between her and the darwish. She con-
sidered Pierre and me as aliens. She
spoke in the present tense of the lost
splendors of Madinat ash-Shams, that
city whose ruins are in Arabia, far be-
hind Mareb.

"By Allah. 1 ” the darwish had ex-
claimed at the end of one of those con-
versations, "I have seen those ruins. And
I know that she speaks of that city as it
was in the days of Suleiman, upon whom
be the peace!

"She is verily Balkis, Malikat as-
Sabahh!” he continued, lowering his voice
in awe. "The Queen of the Morning.
And look you, sidi, those are the eyes of
a Sabean woman of the line of Iaraab,
of pure race.”

It was terrifying to think that a necro-
mancer loved a dead queen, and could
summon her from her grave, and plan
so that his accursed lips might thrill to
die caress of one who had smiled at
Solomon.

Then what of the true Madeleine?
Into what darkness was she banished?

W. T.— 3

THE RETURN OF BALKIS

449

In what limbo, neither living nor dead,
did she roam, desolate and become like
a bird without feathers?

Hideous! Only in this hasheesh dream
of a city could this infamy have occurred.

The moon was almost full. In another
night, lean, wrinkled Nureddin would
try his occult arts, whether or not the
identity of the devil-monger was known.
And in the meanwhile, he and d’ Artois
were taking counsel.

The night was warm and pleasant,
yet suddenly I shivered. My thoughts
were poor company. I knew that this
room was alive with presences, and that
the very silence masked the soundless
murmuring of powers who were striving
to make a final assault against that body
whose soul they had banished.

I could not see them, but they were
assembling.

The room had become a congress of
evil, unseen shapes. Dead Balkis had
been only an apparition, which should
have been asleep rather than awake and
wandering. But this which I now sensed
approaching was malignant, and obscene
in its own right.

The moonlight that had streamed in
through the window was becoming
dimmed.

"Only a cloud,” I reassured myself.
But I knew better.

Madeleine— Balkis — stirred uneasily,
and murmured. Then her great dark
eyes opened. They had the sightlessness
of drugged sleep. I knew that something
was commanding her silence.

The cloud that blotted the moon must
now be very dense. The moon sought to
hide her face from the evils of creation.
The air was now vibrant with menace.
Balkis, ghost that she was in a living
body, was at least human. I wondered
for a moment if I could awaken her, and
let her dark eyes and strange tongue re-
W. T.— 4

prove me for my insolence, so that I
would not be utterly alone in this whirl-
pool of evil. I wondered then if even
Balkis was present. That darkened room
had become appallingly empty, save for
that malevolence that had become a con-
centrated fury.

I glanced at the window, and saw that
which I had not heard. Then I won-
dered if, indeed, I saw. That which
stared between the stout half -inch bars
of steel was a thing which could not have
any existence. It was a foulness and an
abomination and an outrage, that slate-
gray, amorphous presence, four of whose
misshapen hands clutched the sill. It
was that whose soundless approach, and
not any cloud, had obscured the moon.

The reptilian stench of the creature
choked me, and its baleful eyes paralyzed
me. I gasped, and licked my dry lips,
and sought to yell, but my throat was a
dusty void through which my breath
hissed and muttered futilely. I had a pis-
tol, but as in a dreadful nightmare, my
numb hands would not draw and fire.
I knew that firing would be useless. I
knew that it would be vain to alarm
Pierre and the darwish, and the Dankali
sailors.

Two of the hands gripped the bars,
and strained against them, until they
stretched and snapped. And then an-
other pair gave way before the resistless
force of that monster. It was translucent
in the moonlight; and despite its prodi-
gious strength, it was unsubstantial seem-
ing, and formless. It was a foulness from
those unhallowed vaults, coming to do
the bidding of him who had resurrected
and enslaved dead Balkis.

T he window was now clear. That
shapeless, monstrous thing flowed
into the room with its ghastly confusion
of limbs. The reptilian mustiness of

450

WEIRD TALES

serpent -infested subterranean caverns
made the air dense and stifling and foul.

In that extreme of terror, I could no
longer tremble. A lethargic resignation
possessed me. And then I remembered
that it had come at its diabolical master’s
command to seize Madeleine. My throat
was still inarticulate, but with a mighty
effort I regained command of my arms.
I seized the chair on which I had been
sitting and with the strength of frenzy,
smote the creature on the head. I thought,
at least, that it was its head, but I could
not be sure, for the monstrosity trans-
cended the anatomy of honest beasts.

The chair splintered, and yet bounded
back as though I had smitten an inflated
tire. I lashed out again with what re-
mained in my hand. It ignored me, and
lumbered toward Madeleine’s bed. It
was as indifferent to position as it was to
blows; for instead of rising from its dive
to the floor, it waddled sidewise, crab-
like. That formless foulness moved but
with a single idea. It was devoid of per-
ceptions. If it were cut to fragments,
they would unite, and march on. Neither
beast, nor reptile, nor plant, but a hid-
eous blending of them.

It waddled, dragging its members
with a scraping, hissing rustling. Noth-
ing could stop that abysmal foulness.

It would take Madeleine to the den
of the necromancer. Madeleine was
doomed, and before my staring eyes. My
paralyzed throat still sought to yell, but
could not. A fragment of the heavy
chair still hung in my grasp. Hopeless.
Hopeless. What if the Dankalis drove
their broad-bladed knives through it?
What if Pierre sliced it with that two-
handed Moro kampilan? Futile. Vain.
The master demanded Madeleine. And
it served. It advanced, deliberately.

"No, by God!” my mind said, though
my lips were dumb. "There is a way.”

I leaped past the terror, clutched Made-
leine in my arms, and faced the monster.
Madeleine — Balkis — was the beloved of
that damnable necromancer. It would
not hurt her.

I shuddered, and sickened as it em-
braced me and my still sleeping burden.
I held her in a frenzied grip, so that it
would seize us as one. My senses whirled
and spun as the deadly vileness exhaled
by the creature stifled me.

"Must . . . hold . . . tight.”

Good God, what would not a breath
. . . one breath ... of pure air be worth!
And that amorphous, textureless traves-
ty on all creation was touching her. I
wondered how her bare skin could en-
dure that which made me shudder from
the contamination that filtered through
my heavier clothing.

That quintessence of all subterraneaa
loathsomeness. . . .

"Must . . . hold . . . tight ... go
with . . . her . . .”

My last conscious impression was that
we were descending the masonry side of
the building. Very vaguely, and as from
a great distance, I heard yells of frantic
men crying out in a strange language.

The Dankali sailors had seen it. . . .

Then no more, until — I know not how
much later — I opened my eyes, and saw
that I was in a vast, high-ceiled room
pervaded with a phosphorescent green-
ness that quivered and glowed and flick-
ered maddeningly. The expanse of floor
was so broad that the furniture, visible
at the far side, seemed diminutive. I
was lying near the wall. My hands and
feet were tied with cords. My desperate
strategy had worked, though to what end,
I knew not. I had followed Madeleine
into the house of the sorcerer, or into
his subterranean den. I had no ideas on
my location, whether above or below
ground.

THE RETURN OF BALKIS

451

My clothing still reekfed from the foul-
ness of that which had brought us here,
although the stench was rapidly becom-
ing less intense. I shivered from the
memory of that repugnant contact.

In the dim light of the room, I could
distinguish hooded and robed figures.
Some sat cross-legged, each on a bench
scarcely larger than a coffee-table. Others,
shadowy, ominous presences, conferred
in low tones. A heavy haze of incense
from several wrought-iron tripods cloud-
ed the room with its dizzying, breath-tak-
ing fumes. From another apartment, be-
yond the brocaded draperies, that con-
cealed a doorway, I could hear the mut-
tering of kettle-drums, and the whine of
single-stringed kemenjahs, and the sob-
bing notes of pipes. The weird, minor
harmony sent (hills up my spine.

Then a man garbed in formal evening
attire emerged from the shadows not far
from me. He was tall and aquiline-fea-
tured; his eyes were glittering and phos-
phorescent, like those of a great cat.

This was the Master of the show, that
necromancer who had defiled the very
order of life in his attempt to gratify his
ghastly whim; and those robed, hooded
figures that moved through the spectral
haze of the room were his acolytes, and
his adepts in the devilish hierarchy which
he had assembled.

O ne of the adepts strode across the
tile floor and halted within a few
paces of the Master. He was lean, and
cadaverous, and his bald head was bulb-
ous and dome-like. He carried in his
hand a long, carven staff on which he
leaned as he rendered his report in halt-
ing French.

"All is in readiness, Master," he said.
"We are waiting for your command.”
"Then wait no longer,” replied the
necromancer. "Bring her into the hall
at once.”

I had wondered for a moment as to
my own fate. But as I heard the Mas-
ter’s instruction, and saw that corpse-
like fellow with the staff hurrying from
one group to the next, issuing orders in
a low, hoarse voice, my thoughts reverted
to Madeleine. Some final ritual, some ut-
termost outrage seemed to be necessary
before Madeleine would be utterly ex-
pelled from her body, and everlastingly
cast into the darkness from which dead
Balkis had been summoned.

I heard the resonant clang of a brazen
gong. A woodwind instrument breathed
mellow, evil notes that bore a mocking
semblance to the human voice. Then
four litter-bearers, nude save for loin-
cloths, strode across my field of vision.
Despite my bonds, I contrived to wrig-
gle to a sitting position, against the wall.
I saw that it was Madeleine they were
carrying to the dim shadows of the ex-
tremity of the hall. As they approached
their destination, I saw a muffled figure
flitting about, taper in hand, touching
light to other tapers. Their glow was
wan in that poisonous greenish phosphor-
escence; but the added illumination re-
vealed an altar, and an arched shrine
whose monstrous carvings leered horri-
bly in the flickering, sickly flames.

The acolytes laid Madeleine on the
altar. Then with ceremonious gestures
and obeisance, they retreated and took
their posts at the left of the shrine.

The Master, incongruous in his fault-
less costume de rigueur, then approached
the shrine, and halting three paces dis-
tant, extended his arms.

At his gesture, the gongs clanged
again, and as their brazen thunder sub-
sided in a hissing, rustling shiver, he
raised his voice in a terrific invocation.

"Balkis! Balkis! Balkis, Queen of
Saba! I have descended into the shad-
ows, and into the grave, and led you

452

WEIRD TALES

back to the morning! I have sifted the
dust of forgotten centuries, and found
for you a body lovelier than that before!
Balkis, Queen of the Morning! Balkis,
Queen of the Yaman! I will drive her
into the shadows, Balkis, and you will
rejoice in this body, and in this new life!
I have faced the blacknesses of death,
and the terror of the grave and the wrath
beyond, for your sake, Balkis. . .

It was somber and magnificent and
terrible, that deep-throated chant. I shud-
dered with an ecstasy of horror as I
heard that resonant rich voice declaim
full-throated above the wailing reeds and
mocking mellow pipes. His words were
a colossal blasphemy and a superhuman
magnificence that echoed the voice of
that arch-rebel, Lucifer, Son of the Morn-
ing, crying his defiance across the vast-
nesses of the gulf into which he had
been hurled. And I knew that when he
reached the climax of that awful invoca-
tion, Madeleine would be for ever
damned to wander in unfathomable
blacknesses; and resurrected Balkis would
smile with new eyes and new lips at that
mortal who had plunged into the shad-
ows beyond the Border, and led her by
the hand to greet once more the morning
she had not seen for twenty-eight weary
centuries of wasting her beauty among
the cheerless dead.

Acolytes stood by, prepared to do that
which the ritual prescribed, and waiting
for the signal of the Master. The strange
utensils and the uncouth objects that
they held in readiness hinted at further
blasphemies to come,

And then one from the farther shad-
ows came running into the semicircular
field of the tapers’ glow. His oiled skin
shone dully in the flickering light. He
bowed his shaven skull to the tiles, and
lifted his arms in supplication.

"Master, he is on the way! Heknows!”

"What?” thundered the Master.
"Who?”

"The enemy, Master!” replied the re-
tainer. "And armed men are with him.”
Pierre on the way! The necromancer’s
spies had come to warn him that the
avenger had found the trail, and was on
the road to end this toying with the
dead, and affronting the living. Pierre
had heard. It had not been my fancy,
that terrified yell of the Dankalis in the
courtyard. Pierre had in some way found
a clue which would lead him to this den
of uttermost damnation.

T he Master stared at the white form
on the altar before him, and at the
acolytes ranged about him. He frowned,
then clapped his hands. The bulbous-
headed, cadaverous one advanced.

"What say you?” demanded the Mas-
ter.

"Stop him at once,” came the reply.
"Send It out again. There is yet time.
They can form the circle, and It will

crush the enemy ”

"Set them to work!” commanded the
Master; and then, perturbed, he strode
up and down the expanse of tiles.

At a signal from the chief of the aco-
lytes, an attendant smote a brazen gong.
He shouted a command. Robed figures
emerged from the shadows, each bringing
with him his own bench. They arranged
themselves in a crescent in the center of
the hall. I heard the purr of drums; and
then the adepts of the crescent began
murmuring in cadence to the rhythm.
Lips drawn to thin lines, jaws clenched,
they hummed in a droning monotone, as
they swayed from the hips, and made
serpentine passes and gestures. Their
eyes stared glassily in that awful green-
ish light and their bronzed features were
expressionless. They had become autom-
atons, moving to the cadence of those

THE RETURN OF BALKIS

453

whining pipes and muttering drums.
They were like the evil fantasies of In-
dian sculpture set to a devilish music.
And then the music ceased, so that noth-
ing was audible but that damnable dron-
ing, like the buzz of monstrous flies.
Finally they broke the unison that had
marked their start, and each carried on
his own peculiar humming, so that it
seemed as though articulate voices were
chanting as from a great distance, pro-
nouncing words that I could almost un-
derstand.

Then at the point on which their star-
ing eyes' were focused, I perceived a hazy,
bluish vortex that spun, and expanded
and contracted as it spiralled. It elon-
gated, and began an axial spinning. That
nebulous vapor expanded, and branched,
growing in stature and becoming every
instant more solid, until it evolved into
a monstrous presence. It was neither
human, nor reptile, nor beast, but a hid-
eous travesty that was a blasphemy against
created things. It was the counterpart of
that which had seized Madeleine. It was
even more horrible in that green lumines-
cence than it had been in the moonlight
of Madeleine’s room. It was a horror and
an outrage conceived by those six adepts;
and projected by the concentrated force
of their wills exerted in unison, it had
assumed physical substance. It fed on
their will-emanations, and waxed mo-
mentarily more and more substantial.

The Master contemplated the horror.
He smiled thinly, as well he could, hav-
ing marched into the grave and led Bal-
kis by the hand to see the morning. He
knew that it would waylay Pierre and
his men, and crush them in its irresistible
grasp, and sear their brains with the ter-
ror of its presence.

The droning of the adepts ceased and
with it the mutter of drums and whine
of strings. They swayed in cadence to

the rhythm that had been established.
They stared fixedly at the spot from
whence the monstrosity had materialized,
and gestured with the slow precision of
an intricate machine.

The silence was absolute for a moment.

And then I heard the faint, sibilant
hiss of the monster’s limbs as it dragged
them across the tiles. A choking, nau-
seous vapor exuded from its presence. As
it advanced, it began to murmur, and
flex its misshapen members as though to
test their strength. It paused a moment,
as if to receive its final instructions, and
then it moved across the floor with a
rapidity that belied its grotesquely de-
formed shape. I heard a door close be-
hind it, and bolts slip into place as that
foulness went out into the night to seek
Pierre and waylay him. Nor could it
miss, for it was guided by the fiendish
intelligence of those entranced adepts,
who were clairvoyant in that self-imposed
hypnosis which enabled them to material-
ize their malignant thought-form. It
would hunt him down. He could not by
any chance avoid it; and he could not
overcome it.

Madeleine was doomed. In my de-
spair, I became resigned to my bonds.
Balkis would smile from her new body,
and be untroubled by any lingering ves-
tige of that lovely girl’s personality. The
Master had but to resume his sonorous
invocation, and weave again the spell,
complete the ritual recitation of that
which he had faced to woo her among
the dead, then chant her back to the for-
gotten light of the morning.

Pierre was doomed, and with him,
stout Nureddin who had come across the
desert and sailed a frail zaroug coastwise
from the Red Sea to France. It would
annihilate them all, Pierre, the darwish,
and the Dankalis with their broad-bladed
knives.

454

WEIRD TALES

A great rage then possessed me, and
put to flight my resignation. I would
burst my bonds, and bare-handed avenge
as much of this infamy as I could until
those adepts overwhelmed me. But as I
strained at the cords that bound my
ankles and wrists, I knew that even that
was vanity.

And then a cigar-lighter fell from my
vest pocket to the tiles. The Master had
not even glanced in my direction. He
still paced up and down before the altar,
disturbed by the interruption of his ritual.
He was waiting to learn of the destruc-
tion of Pierre and his party.

Arching my back like a measuring-
worm, I placed myself over the cigar-
lighter, and with the fingers of one hand,
uncapped it, and whirled the milled
wheel. The wick ignited. I could feel
its tiny, fierce flame eating into my wrists;
and above the fumes that rose from the
tall wrought-iron tripod censers, I could
smell the burning of the cord, and the
singeing of hair and flesh. The pain
was excruciating. I dared not move. The
strain of keeping my body clear of the
lighter, so that its flame would not be
smothered, was intolerable. And then
the cords yielded. Hands free! With my
scorched fingers, I dug a penknife from
my pocket, and slashed the cords that
bound me.

The Master stood before the altar,
contemplating Madeleine’s still body in
the light of those flickering tapers. His
hands were clasped behind his back, and
his head bowed.

The shaven heads of the six adepts
seated crescent-wise behind the Master
were weaving and nodding in cadence.

And then I heard a shout, and cries
of terror. Pierre’s voice. He had avoided
It until almost within striking distance
of the enemy.

I leaped to my feet, and seized the
wrought-iron tripod by its legs. I
charged across the hall, scattering behind
me a trail of incandescent coals. The
Master heard me, and turned. He shouted
a command. I saw emerging from the
green shadows a file of short, muscular
men, naked save for loin-cloths, and
armed with short curved blades.

With my feet planted firmly on the
tiles, I swung my fire-charged weapon —
not at them, but crashing down on the
shaven skull of the first of the six adepts
and showering the others with fire.

That would break up their concentra-
tion!

Crash! Another found his brains ooz-
ing across the tiles.

They were almost upon me, those
swordsmen. Their blades glittered as
they advanced.

A pistol cracked, and the impact of the
Master’s shot whirled me back a pace.
I recovered, and swung again as he fired
a second time. And then I hurled the
tripod full into the face of the leading
swordsman. Their blades hacked and
raked me as I stretched out in a lunge
that carried me under their sweeping
slashes. I clutched the second by the
ankles and dragged him to the floor. They
howled with pain as their bare feet trod
on the live coals I had scattered.

The Master no longer dared fire, lest
he strike his own men.

They were hacking and thrusting in
that milling confusion of arms and legs
and bodies, doing each other more harm
than they did me. I salvaged a dagger,
and stabbed blindly. But it was a hope-
less mel^e. I was at the bottom of the
heap.

Those few seconds of close-packed con-
fusion seemed ages. No one could last
long against such odds. Any instant
would bring the finishing thrust. . . .

THE RETURN OF BALKIS

455

I heard a splintering of glass, and
shouts. The voice of Pierre! And Nured-
din with his Dankalis!

In an instant, the milling tangle leaped
clear, leaving me lying among the dead.
I saw the darwish, white beard streaming,
sword in hand, leading his topper-colored
Dankalis toward the altar, slaying-mad
and howling as they slashed with their
broad-bladed knives.

One of them was about to cut down the
Master.

"Stop!” cried Pierre.

The mad savage halted, and lowered his
blade. I struggled to my feet, cut, blood-
drenched, but not entirely dismembered.

The hall was a madhouse of slaughter.
Nureddin’s curved blade dripped blood-
ily. A Dankali lay on a heap of fallen
swordsmen, still clutching his knife.
Pierre’s pistol, empty and fuming, was in
his hand, at his side.

"Graf Istavan,” he said to that tall,
somber Master, "it seems that you are the
only survivor. But I propose to remedy
that in a moment.”

"So the redoubtable d’ Artois will attack
an unarmed man?” he murmured dis-
dainfully.

"By no means, monsieur,” said Pierre,
"but wait and see.”

"My lord,” said Nureddin, as he ap-
proached, "I will send Balkis back to the
shadows."

And then he spoke to the Dankalis in
their own language. They surrounded
Graf Istavan with a circle of steel. The
darwish picked from the floor a fragment
of charcoal that had been spilled during
the skirmish, and set about making good
his promise to d’ Artois. While he was
marking upon the tiles the figure that was
required, I turned to Pierre to inquire
about the monstrosity that had been sent
to waylay him.

"It met us as we drew up in the grove

outside the chateau,” he said. "MonDieu!
A loathsome nightmare! The darwish
slashed it with his simitar. I fired at it,
but the thing was invulnerable. The Dan-
kalis were too frightened to run. So were
we all, for that matter. It enveloped us in
its limbs and was crushing us slowly but
very surely, like some monstrous octopus,
and stifling us with its poisonous exhala-
tion,”

D’Artois shuddered at the memory of
the horror.

"And then,” he resumed, "it suddenly
became vague and shadowy. Now that I
hear your side of it, it is all clear. You
were right in bending that iron tripod
over the heads of those adepts. The mon-
ster was their thought-form, projected
into the physical plane, and when you so
deftly addled the brains of two or three
of them, the concentration was inter-
rupted. As you describe the ritual, those
adepts must have hypnotized themselves,
each envisioning the same creature, bent
on the same mission. The Yogis in Hin-
dustan have a similar feat. The vortex of
thought force became a physical entity
with no motive but to annihilate us, just
as the thing which took you and Ma-
deleine had but one impulse, capturing
her. Your device, my friend, in seizing
her and being taken with her was shrewd
strategy ”

“I was too scared to do anything else,”
I replied. "But where are we? How did
you follow us? How ”

"Tenez!" exclaimed d’ Artois. "I will
enlighten you. One of the Dankalis
howled as though Satan had prodded him
with his red-hot trident. He had seen It
leaving with you and Madeleine.

"Nureddin and I had been studying the
case that evening. We carefully con-
sidered a list, as I told you, of all persons
Madeleine had had any contact with while
in Bayonne. I took the liberty of opening

456

WEIRD TALES

a letter addressed to her, from a friend in
Marseilles, and there I found it. ’You
didn’t tell me about the seance at Graf
Istavan’ s chateau,’ the young lady wrote to
Madeleine.

"Voild! There I had it. Why did she
forget the handsome Graf Istavan, when
she remembered all those shopkeepers and
servants, and casual acquaintances? How
could a girl reared in America, where a
Hungarian count would be a sensation,
forget an invitation to a soiree at his cha-
teau? I inquired. It was simple. I knew
then that she had forgotten because she
had been commanded to remember that
she was Balkis, and to forget that she had
ever heard of Graf Istavan. It was obvi-
ous, simple, n’est-ce pas? And so when I
found you two had vanished and heard of
the afreet, as those excellent black fellows
called the hideous thing, I set out on the
trail. And the rest you know.”

W E glanced at the darwish. He had
drawn a pentade upon the tiled
floor. In each of its five angles he was in-
scribing symbols, and characters in a script
I did not recognize.

"Look!” muttered Pierre. "Madeleine’s
fate depends upon that darwish. When
he arrived, he thought that it would be
simple to expel Balkis. But she has taken
such complete possession that it will be
more than a simple exorcism. And the
great danger is that Madeleine has been
thrust so far into the shadows that there is
no longer any bond between her and the
body that once was hers.

"My friend, you think that the evening
behind you has been one of perils and en-
counters. A has! That has been nothing.
The conflict is yet to come. That white-
bearded nomad holds the destiny of two
women in his hands. And, if I mistake
not, perhaps another destiny.”

At the corners of the pentacle, the dar-

wish had placed glowing charcoal from
the censers that had not been overturned.
And on each heap he poured a handful of
the same incense that they had been burn-
ing in the room. As the fumes rose in
dense, stifling sweet clouds that almost
obscured the darwish as he knelt in the
center of the figure, we heard him chant.

"Ya Balkis! Ya Balkis, malikat us-
Sabahh! Beloved of Suleiman! The diief
and the spoiler has robbed the grave and
called you from being queen among the
quiet dead. The mocker and the defiler
has disturbed your rest.

"Ya Balkis, come forth from the body
which you have invaded!

"Ya Balkis, come forth of your own
will, or I will pronounce your Hidden
Name. I will pronounce your True
Name. Hear me, Balkis, Queen of the
Morning, for this I can and this I will
do!”

Then he began solemnly intoning in
that almost forgotten language. His voice
rolled and thundered like drums beaten
before a palace; and from time to time,
during that sonorous invocation, we heard
her name, and knew that he had not yet
pronounced the True Name.

D’ Artois shivered, and down my own
spine there were chills leaping and danc-
ing to the cadence of that great voice. A
terrific tension was in the air, and a rus-
tling and chirping, and a murmuring: and
within the pentacle, beside the smoke-
veiled kneeling form of the darwish, we
saw another standing, who was slender
and wore a tall, curiously wrought diadem.

The chanting ceased, and the mutter-
ing, rustling sounds that we had heard.
And then the darwish pronounced a sin-
gle phrase, and made a gesture.

There was a deep sigh, and a stifled
wail of unutterable despair. The darwish
was alone in the pentacle. His eyes stared
and his face was drawn as he bowed to the

THE RETURN OF BALKIS

457

five points of the pentacle, and stepped
from its limits.

He addressed d’ Artois.

"My lord, Balkis has returned to the
shadows. Now let us see what tenant the
stolen body has.”

Madeleine lay motionless on the altar,
in the wan light of the flickering tapers,
and the green phosphorescence that per-
vaded the room.

"Look,” whispered Pierre, "her expres-
sion is changed. She is indeed gone.”

I saw then that while the features had
not altered in any essential, there was an
indefinable though certain difference. I
wondered if Madeleine would look at us
from those long-lashed eyes when she
opened them.

"Awaken her at once!” commanded
d’ Artois, beckoning to Graf Istavan. He
too had seen that presence in the pentacle
with the darwish, and with her disappear-
ance, his last hope had vanished. His
haughty features were calm in despair: for
Balkis, the beloved from the shadows, had
died before his eyes.

Nureddin muttered a word to the
Dankalis. As they advanced, their circle
of steel urged Graf Istavan toward the
altar. Then they halted, letting him ap-
proach the body of his victim. Their
thirsty blades were poised, ready to cut
him down at Nureddin’s signal.

The necromancer turned toward d’ Ar-
tois.

"Monsieur,” he said, "this has gone too
far. I can not awaken her.”

"Try it!” demanded d’ Artois. "It is
worth trying. If you fail, these black fel-
lows will tear you to pieces and eat your
raw flesh. Awaken her!”

G raf istavan knew that d’ Artois had
used no figure of speech when he
made his threat. He saw the darwish

thoughtfully fingering the edge of his
sword. Then he faced the altar, and made
stroking passes and gestures. He addressed
the sleeping girl in sharp syllables of
command. Perspiration cropped out on
his forehead. His hands began to tremble
as he exerted his will to its utmost, trying
one device after another to awaken Ma-
deleine. He was fighting for his life, and
he knew it. But in vain.

His arms dropped to his side. He
turned to Pierre with a despairing gesture.

"It is useless, monsieur,” he said. "She
has escaped. She is beyond my reach.
She ”

"Is she dead?” I demanded. "Pi-

"No,” said d’ Artois. "Her body is
alive. It has suffered no violence. But her
spiritual essence, her intelligence, her soul,
call it what you will, had been forced so
far into the shadows that it wanders, lost
and confused, and can not find its way
back. Try again, Graf Istavan, or by the
living God, these fellows will tear you
limb from limb, and I am not jesting!”
The necromancer shrugged his shoul-
ders resignedly, and shook his head.

"What I can not do, I can not. Do your
worst. I am beaten, and I do not com-
plain. That white-bearded juggler of
yours, that wild darwish from the desert,
has driven Balkis beyond my reach. I
heard him command her by her True

Name, and she obeyed. She is gone ”

Again that gesture, and that haunted
look of despair.

"So it makes little difference what hap-
pens to me. Let them strike. Perhaps I
can find her somewhere across the Border,
where she is with the untroubled dead.
Strike, monsieur. I am unarmed.”

And the eager steel that touched him,
waiting to drive home, did not make him
flinch. I saw that he welcomed it. I sensed

458

WEIRD TALES

that we were but saving him from seeking
his own life. It was I. rather than Graf
Istavan, who felt the supreme despair of
that tense moment when the steel would
blossom red again and complete the eve-
ning’s vain butchery. For vain it was, with
Madeleine lying there, a thing of exquisite
beauty: living, yet dead. Madeleine’s self
was wandering blindly in a limbo whose
dim mazes confused her groping search
for her body. I saw the fierce light in
Pierre’s eyes and the passionless, serene
gaze of the darwish, and the grimness of
the Dankalis poised to strike: and saw but
futile vengeance whose bitter fruit would
be a lovely, soulless body.

Nureddin’s gesture beckoned the sav-
ages away from Graf Istavan, whose life
they wanted as blood indemnity for their
fallen comrades.

"Nureddin,” said d’ Artois, "is there no
way? Are we too late?”

His voice was unsteady, and his features
were tense. For a moment I wondered if
he would with his own hands kill an un-
armed man.

"Sidi, there is a way,” replied the dar-
wish. He spoke very slowly and solemnly.
"Do you remember that night? We were
in Kuh-i-Atesh?”

D’Artois’ tanned cheeks paled at the
mention of the Mountain of Fire, in
Kurdistan. “Good God! you don’t mean
that you’ll try that ritual?”

"If it please Allah, I will,” affirmed
the darwish.

D’Artois bowed his head for a mo-
ment. He glanced at the sleeping loveli-
ness on the altar. His eyes were somber
and despairing.

"I can’t let him do that,” he muttered.
"And she's the daughter of my old friend.
I can’t refuse. . . .”

Pierre's features quivered with emo-
tion. He paced back and forth, head

bowed, and eyes staring at the tiles. Pierre
was playing the heart-breaking role of
destiny. His choice would decide the day.
Madeleine would remain a lovely, lifeless
thing — or old Nureddin would face some
awful peril. I had sensed that from the
moment I had heard the name of that
mountain in Kurdistan. Now I knew it.

"My friend,” said the darwish, "I will
make the venture, imhallah! Do not seek
to dissuade me. You have no choice. I
will not fail!”

The darwish turned to the Dankalis
and spoke a few words in a low voice.
They stared, and made gestures of protest.
Nureddin hushed their murmurings with
a sharp command. Then they escorted
Graf Istavan away from the altar. I had
not understood a word of that Somali
Coast jargon, but I saw from their faces
that the words of Nureddin had instilled
fear, and consternation, and grief.

"Mordieu!” exclaimed Pierre as he
faced me. "He has taken the initiative so
as to absolve me of all blame. He knew
that I could neither consent nor deny.”

In a low, hoarse voice he continued,
"To stand here and watch, helplessly — it
is terrible!”

The darwish in the meanwhile had
been scratching a circle on the tiles with
the point of his blade. Then he wiped it
clean and forced it between the tiles so
that it stood upright before him. The
steel glistened frostily in that weird green
light.

N ureddin knelt and crossed his arms
on his breast. He bowed thrice,
touching his forehead to the tiles just ia
front of the sword. We heard him mut-
tering words that he pronounced so rapid-
ly that we made no attempt to understand
or even recognize the language. Then his
voice became a faint murmur as he stared

THE RETURN OF BALKIS

459

fixedly at the glittering steel. Finally it
subsided to an indistinct whisper, then to
silence. His body swayed ever so slightly,
like a reed in a gentle breeze.

Nureddin’s features were transfigured
with an awful solemnity. His eyes had
become fixed in an intent stare. I held my
breath, and quivered from a growing
tension. Neither fuming censers nor
chanting acolytes : only an old man kneel-
ing before an upright blade, and staring
fixedly; yet it was more awesome and
compelling than any of the thaumaturgy
and sonorous rituals I had witnessed that
night, and more terribly thrilling than
Graf Istavan’s mighty recital.

I knew that this darwish who knelt in
the circle was indeed a pious and holy
man; that such pecadillos as the robbing
of caravans were trifles not to be charged
to his account.

The room was a brooding silence such
as precedes the relentless stroke of doom.
I glanced at Pierre, and was glad that 1
did not know what to expect.

We stood poised on the very border
of-

A great cry wrenched our tense nerves.
Then we heard a gasp, and the scream of
a startled woman.

Madeleine sat upright on the altar. She
was bewildered, and her eyes were wide
with terror. Then she recognized d’ Ar-
tois.

"Oh, Uncle Pierre!” she exclaimed, as
she slid from the altar that had come so
perilously close to being her bier. "What
in the world — where — an old white-
bearded man was leading me through an
awful fog where I’d been lost so hope-
lessly— —

She laughed hysterically, and clung to
her Uncle Pierre.

"He took me . . . by the hand . . . and
led me. . . . Oh, it was terrible, but his
face was so kind. . . .”

"My dear,” said d’ Artois, making an
effort to control his conflicting emotions,
"let us go home. We have — here, take
her!” he commanded in a voice whose
gruffness nearly cracked for an instant.
“The car is not far from the chateau, in
front.”

As Madeleine clung to my arm, I
caught a glimpse of Nureddin lying face
down on the tiles. His arms stretched out
before him. Only a glance: but I knew
now why d’ Artois had paled at the men-
tion of Kuh-i-Atesh.

The exit from the room was through
the window. As I helped Madeleine
through the shatteted sash, I heard
Pierre’s voice, very stem, and too well
controlled. He spoke to the Dankalis in
Arabic.

"One of you help me with your mas-
ter’s body. He is dead.”

"Monsieur d’ Artois,” said Graf Istavan,
"death is nothing to me. But would you
leave me to be mutilated by these sav-
ages?”

"Their master,” replied d’ Artois stern-
ly, "went across the Border to lead your
victim back to her body before it died.
But he himself could not return. Before
he left, I fancy that he instructed his men.
Who am I to ask them to disobey?”

I leaped to the ground. As Madeleine
dropped to my arms, one of the Dankalis
followed her. After him came d’Artois,
who let down the body of the darwish.

Pierre, however, carried Nureddin sin-
gle-handed to the car, for the Dankali was
in great haste to rejoin his comrades. . . .

W E drove back to Pierre’s house as
fast as tire powerful car would
carry us. Madeleine, still unstrung from
her sudden awakening, was startled at the
sight of Nureddin.

"Oh, that’s the same old man that I
saw in my dream!” she exclaimed. "He

460

WEIRD TALES

led me back through the fog and the dark-
ness. It’s been the most miserable night-
mare! Most of the time I thought I was
some one else.”

Later, as we three sat in his study, I
said, "Pierre, what really did happen, now
that it’s all over?’’

"That old darwish,” said d’Artois,
"knew that there was but one way of
bringing Madeleine back to her body. He
knew that that would be a feat that even
an adept can perform but once. Yet,
knowing that it would be fatal, he per-
sisted.

"My dear,” he continued, turning to
Madeleine, "although your body was still
alive, you were dead. And had Nureddin
not acted so quickly, you would have
joined Balkis in the shadows, for there
would have been no living body to await
your return.”

For a few moments we were without
words. Death had taken the darwish, but
the living girl was testimony that Death
himself had been robbed by that strange
old man.

"But why didn’t he use the True Name
— whatever that may be?” I finally asked
d’Artois.

"Nureddin’s occult studies could
scarcely have included Madeleine’s True
Name,” replied d’Artois. "He did not
know it, and thus could not call her back
to her body. But an adept from the
Orient would know the True Name of
Balkis.

“That principle,” d’Artois continued,
"is one of the oldest in the study of magic
and the occult. The ancient Hebraic cabala
made much of the holy and awful mystery
of the True Name of Javeh. Egyptian
sorcerers claimed that they would work
miracles by threatening Osiris with the
public revelation of his True Name if he
did not lend them his power.

"Everything, in fact, is supposed to
have a secret name by which it can be
commanded,” concluded Pierre. "But few
have that knowledge.”

"And to think,” said Madeleine, "that
that old man deliberately gave his life for
a strange woman.” Her eyes sparkled
with tears as she continued, "That took
greater courage than facing — oh, but I
shouldn’t say that, after what you and
Uncle Pierre did. What I mean — if I

could only express ”

"Don’t try to, my dear,” said Pierre.
"We know how you feel about that heroic
old fellow.” And then, solemnly, "You
can best express your appreciation by
never regretting that you are not a queen.”
D’Artois, deeply moved as he was by
the sacrifice of the darwish, smiled, and
twisted his mustache. "You might,” he
suggested, "remember him, and some day
name your first son Nureddin!

"And now I must busy myself with cer-
tain arrangements with Monsieur the Pre-
fect of Police, on account of the messy
condition of the chateau of the late Graf
Istavan. His title, by the way, is as fic-
titious as your claim to the throne of
Balkis. Those good Dankalis would do
well to leave Bayonne quietly and quickly.

And while I arrange ”

D’Artois winked at me, and grinned,
making an unconvincing attempt to con-
ceal his emotions.

"See if you can console this young lady
for her sudden loss of a crown,” he said.

"That,” murmured Madeleine, as the
door closed behind Pierre, "should be easy
enough, unless you take after Graf Istavan
and insist upon royalty.”

But she was wrong; for my thoughts as
well as hers, that evening, were of an old
man who had gone empty-handed on a
raid to rob Death, instead of a caravan of
Persian heretics.

By EDMOND HAMILTON

*-’**•5

An interplanetary story of many thrills — a battle of leaping flame on the worlds of
Alpha Centauri, our nearest neighbor in space

^’"'^ONNOR! Newell!” called Rod-
3 . ney March from the cruiser’s

wheel. "Come up here to the
pilot room — something to show you!”

A voice reached him from below. *TU
be up in a minute, Rod, but don’t ask
Connor. He looks a little space-sick."

"Space-sick your eye!” a wrathful voice
answered. "If you were just half the

space-sailor I am, you’d ”

"Cut it and come up here!” March or-

dered impatiently. "Can’t you two let up
on this scrapping for a few minutes?"

There was silence for a few moments,
and then the two climbed up into the
broad-windowed little pilot room in which
March sat at the controls of the cruiser as
it raced through the void.

Tim Connor was red-haired and blue-
eyed, with hard-bitten face, while Milt
Newell was long and dark and lazy-
moving. They came over to March’s side.

461

462

WEIRD TALES

"What is it? Trouble?” asked Connor.
"I’d almost welcome some to break this
cursed monotony.”

"The monotony is almost over, Tim,”
March told him. "Look ahead there at
Alpha Centauri — see those spots of light
on either side?”

"Spots of light?” Connor’s eyes wrin-
kled. "Spots - ”

"I see them!” Newell announced.
"Two on one side of the double-star and
one on the other side! They must be ”

"Planets!” March finished for him.
"Three planets moving round Alpha Cen-
tauri, and we’ll be reaching them in
hours!”

"They are planets, too!” Connor said
excitedly. "By the Lord, I was getting
afraid that we’d have to go on to Sirius
without finding any planets at our first
stop — Alpha Centauri!”

The three gazed with intent interest.
The broad fore-window of the pilot room
framed the blackness of interstellar space,
dotted with brilliant stars. In this black-
ness there flamed close together two yel-
low suns, one rather larger than the other,
and about them were the three attendant
spots of steady light. Alpha Centauri
and its three worlds!

Toward Alpha Centauri their cruiser
had raced steadily through the trackless
void for weeks, since they had left their
own solar system. It was in a wild long-
ing for new adventure that the three had
left in their new cruiser of revolutionary
design. Wearied by the boredom of the
solar system’s tame interplanetary traffic,
they had started toward the hitherto un-
reached stars on a voyage of discovery and
adventure.

Their cruiser, driven by etheric propul-
sion-vibrations which it projected behind
it, could attain speeds many times the
speed of light itself. It had super-con-
centrated supplies and almost inexhaust-

ible power, and thus the three could expect
in it to visit the universe’s greatest stars.
Now the first goal of their voyage, the
nearest star, was in sight, as they gazed
toward Alpha Centauri and its attendant
planets.

"Three worlds!” Connor was exulting.
"Do you suppose they have life on them?
Intelligent life?”

"Hard to tell,” March answered. "We
can’t expect to find peopled planets or
even planets at every star we visit. If
these three worlds have inhabitants, they
may be like ourselves or entirely alien in
form.”

"Whatever they’re like, I hope they’re
not too peaceful,” Connor said. "I’m
aching to get this boat’s guns on some-
thing — then bam!”

"You and your cursed guns will prob-
ably be the end of us before we touch at
many stars,” Newell told him. "Having
you along is a perfect way of laying up a
store of first-class trouble.”

"Is that so?” Connor demanded.
"Since when have you been so cautious? I
never remember you hanging back when
there was trouble being mixed, and what’s
more ”

"Will you two lay off?” March asked.
"We’ll reach those planets in a few hours;
so try to control yourselves until then.”

"Going to head for the outermost plan-
et first?” Connor asked, and March
nodded.

"Yes, it’s the nearest, and we may as
well look it over first.”

W ithin hours Alpha Centauri’ s out-
ermost planet had grown from a
speck of steady light to a great yellowish
globe over which their cruiser hung in
space. March began to bring the cruiser
down in steep spirals toward the planet.
He was gazing intently down with Con-

THE STAR-ROAMERS

463

nor and Newell when there came a star-
tling interruption to their descent.

Space about them was suddenly alive
with strange, dark oval ships! March,
even as he whirled over the cruiser’s wheel
in answer to Newell's startled cry of
warning, was aware that from the rushing
ships small globular clouds of white gas
were speeding toward them! The scores
of oval ships were attacking them!

The cruiser heeled dizzily in space as it
answered the wheel. Crisscrossing gas-
globes hurtled through space where it had
just been, and as one of these globes of
gas touched a darting oval ship that was
too slow in escaping its path, March saw
the ship crumbled to fragments by the
globe of gas! As he swerved the cruiser
with instinctive swiftness, he heard a ay
from Newell, another from Connor.

Connor was at the controls of the cruis-
er’s guns, his blue eyes blazing. From
these ether-guns mounted at prow and
stern of the cruiser came a swift drum-
ming as they poured a stream of ether-
shells at the attacking oval ships around
them. Three ships were struck by the
ether-shells and vanished instantly, the
exploding shells dematerializing them by
destroying the ether about and through
them. But the scores of other oval ships
were closing in.

Their deadly gas-globes hurtled from
every direction as March kept the cruiser
leaping, turning, jerking and dodging in
an effort to evade them. Newell was
shouting something to him — Connor was
yelling as he worked the ether-guns — he
glimpsed symbols of two metal circles on
the sides of the oval ships — he knew that
in seconds one of those hurtling gas-
globes would touch the cruiser

Suddenly the attacking ships whirled
back, recoiled. Other oval ships, twice
their number and like, them save that they
bore a three-circle symbol, were racing up

from beneath and falling on the attackers!
Instantly there was a mad melange of bat-
tle around the cruiser, gas-globes storm-
ing thick among the spinning ships, crum-
bling to fragments those ships they
touched. Then abruptly those who had
attacked the cruiser fled, darting up and
out of sight. The battle was over!

"Good God!” aied March, shaken.
"What kind of a hornet’s nest have we
blundered into here?”

"Whatever else this star has, it has
fighting!” Connor cried, his blue eyes bril-
liant with excitement. "We put our mark
on those birds, too, though they’d have
had us if the others hadn’t shown up.”

It reminded March. "The ships that
saved us! Look, they’re coming toward
us — they must be friendly.”

"I see men inside that one!” said New-
ell suddenly. "Look, Rod, the transpar-
ent part there at the nose!”

March had seen. One of the scores of
oval ships of their rescuers had driven
level with the cruiser in space and at its
nose was a transparent-windowed section
much like the cruiser’s pilot room. They
could see men inside it, bronze-skinned
and dark-haired men clad in black har-
ness. One of them was making friendly
signs to the three in the cruiser’s pilot
room, pointing down to the planet below.

"They want us to accompany them
down to their world,” March interpreted.
"They seem friendly enough, too.”

"Well, it’s where we were going any-
way,” Connor said, "though I’d like to
come out here and meet those other birds
again some time.”

"We’re going down with them,” March
decided. "Remember to keep your mitts
off those gun-grips, Tim. These people
are friends.”

Their cruiser swung down in steep
spirals with the oval ships around it*
"Rod, do you think those ships that at-

464

WEIRD TALES

tacked us came from one of the other two
planets?” Newell asked.

"Must have,” March said thoughtfully.
"I didn’t glimpse those inside them, but
I’ve no doubt they were from the other
worlds.”

They descended quickly with the oval
ships flying smoothly down around them.
Soon the rush and roar of air outside told
them that they were entering the planet’s
atmosphere. Newell consulted meters
and reported the atmosphere a heavy one
of air. Connor looked down with March
intently.

They dropped through the mists of the
planet’s upper atmosphere and had
glimpses from time to time of a yellow
and black checkered plain below. They
shot down through the last mists to find
themselves less than a mile over this plain.
March and Connor and Newell exclaimed
in their surprize. The plain was a city!

It was an immense yellow and black
checker-city, the yellow squares being
blocks of thick yellow vegetation careful-
ly tended, and the black squares being
blocks of cubical black buildings. This
strange checker-city of vegetation and
buildings stretched from horizon to hori-
zon of the world under them.

Its inhabitants, they saw as they dropped
lower, were innumerable bronze-skinned
men and women. Many thronged the
ways of the building-squares, while as
many others worked in the vegetation-
squares at the cultivation of the growths
there. A few oval ships were in sight
over the city, most of them near a block
that held the largest blade buildings.
Toward this the cruiser’s escorting ships
were leading it.

T he cruiser came to rest with the oval
ships about it on the black plaza sur-
rounding these large central buildings.
“Here we are,” said March, "and

there’s a crowd waiting for us out there
already. What do the meters read, Milt?”

"Atmosphere and temperature about
the same as earth’s — gravitation a little
stronger,” Newell reported. "Our belt
automatic-equalizers will take care of the
increased gravitation, of course.”

"Then it’s safe to go out. Come on,
you jtwo.”

"Shall we take ether-pistols?” Connor
asked.

"You’re a trusting fellow, aren’t you?”
Newell exclaimed. "These people out
there just saved all our necks and the first
thing you suggest is taking ether-pistols
on a friendly call on them!”

"I don’t think we’ll need the pistols,”
March said.

"Have it your own way,” Connor re-
turned. "I’m only afraid that when they
see this pan of Newell’s they’ll regret sav-
ing us and want to ”

"Can it, will you!” March exclaimed.
"No more out of you two, now — let’s get
out.”

He led down to the space-doors, spin-
ning open inner and outer ones, and they
stepped out onto the plaza’s seamless
black paving.

They looked instinctively upward first
and then blinked dazzled eyes for a mo-
ment, almost blinded by the brilliance of
the two suns flaming close together in the
heavens. An intense flood of light and
heat poured down from the two lum-
inaries.

When their eyes were a little accus-
tomed to the light, they saw in front of
them a group of a dozen waiting men.
They were the bronze-skinned, dark-
haired men of the oval ships, their fea-
tures regular and intelligent. They wore
black belts that formed more a harness
than clothing, and each wore on his shoul-
der-belt a symbol of three metal circles
like those on their ships. They surveyed

W. T.— 4

THE STAR-ROAMERS

46 5

the earthmen in patent amazement,
which was shared by the throngs of
bronze-skinned men and women gathered
at a respectful distance.

"These people seem far enough ad-
vanced to converse telepathically as we
can in the solar system,” March told his
companions. “I’ll try them.”

He projected a clear thought at the men
before him. "We three are men from
another sun’s worlds — from another star.
Can you receive and understand my
thought?”

The foremost bronze man, a tall, com-
manding figure, answered, his own dear
thought coming into the minds of the
three. "I understand you; yet I do not
understand how you can claim to be from
another star.”

March gestured upward. "The stars
that dot the heavens at night are all suns.
You know that?”

"We know,” the other answered, "but
never have we thought it possible to cross
the vast gulfs that lie between the suns.
Yet on the other hand you three are not
of any of our suns’ three worlds.”

“Your three worlds are all inhabited
then by humans like yourselves?” March
asked quickly, but the other shook his
head.

"No, we Kerts inhabit only this outer-
most world, planet three. I, Jurn, am one
of the two co-rulers of our race of Kerts
or humans, and beside me is Hollak, the
other. We were conferring here together
on the situation of our world when there
came an alarm that a ship was being at-
tacked over it.”

"Then the ships that attacked us
weren’t ships of humans?” asked Newell.

Again Jurn shook his head. "No, they
were ships of the Threns who inhabit the
second planet and make war on us Kerts.
While somewhat like humans in appear-
ance, the Threns are really but half-de-
W. T.— 5

veloped between liquid and human form,
though as intelligent as we are.”

“And the other planet, the innermost
one?” March pursued.

"The innermost planet is inhabited
neither by us Kerts nor by the Threns, but
by the Rhels,” Jurn answered. "The
Rhels are a strange liquid-people sup-
posed to be ancestors of both Threns and
Kerts, and greater in intelligence than
either. But little is known of them, for
they have no intercourse with either of
the other two worlds.”

“But the space-ships and weapons of
the Threns seemed just the same as yours,”
Connor commented.

Hollak, the huge co-ruler of Jurn, an-
swered. "They are the same, for they
were handed down to us from the far past
when the Threns were the ancestors of
our own Kert race.”

"It is so,” Jum added, "and because
our weapons and space- ships are the same
as theirs the Threns have warred for long
without conquering us. But of late they
have been growing too strong for us — too
strong— — ” His face shadowed

2

T hen Jum’s manner changed sudden-
ly. "But enough of Threns and
Kerts for the present. I am forgetting
my duties toward you as guests of our
world.” He motioned to the great build-
ings.

March hesitated. “Our cruiser will be
safe here?”

“I will make sure for you that it is,”
Jurn answered.

He turned and uttered a brief order.
Guards armed with short rods — gas-globe
weapons, they guessed— surrounded the
cruiser.

Jurn and Hollak led the way toward
the great central building in the block of
huge black cubes ahead. A little retinue

466

WEIRD TALES

of guards and officials followed them, and
the watching crowds of Kerts gave way
before the party, staring with a very hu-
man curiosity at March and his compan-
ions.

When they had passed out of the two
suns’ blaze of light and heat into the cool
dimness of the great cube-building, Jurn
led them to the black-walled, high-win-
dowed chambers that were to be theirs.
He informed them that they would meet
Hollak and him shortly at the evening
meal.

When he had gone, March and Connor
and Newell stared about them and from
the windows, as though doubting the
reality of their transition from the monot-
ony of space to this civilized city. The
utter simplicity of design of all about
them bespoke a combination of scientific
and artistic knowledge and instinct.

Soft and sourceless light waxed in the
rooms as darkness fell outside, and silent-
moving Kert sen’ ants tended them unob-
trusively. They went then to join Jurn
and Hollak and found the two co-rulers
on a balcony that jutted from the great
cube-building’s side. A small food-laden
table awaited them. The great city
stretched before them in the darkness,
many lights blinking from its checkered
building-squares.

The Kert city’s patterned lights were
rivalled by the star-spawn that glittered
across the sky. March and Newell and
Connor gazed up across them, noting that
some of the familiar constellations had
altered slightly in outline but that most
were unchanged. The sun of their own
origin shone as a bright yellow point, and
March gestured to if.

"Our sun — our star! It seems a long
while now since we started out from it
toward this star.”

"It is wonderful that such a thing
could be,” Jurn marvelled. "And do you

go backr from here to your own sun
again?”

"No,” Connor grinned. "Sirius is our
next stop, and after that we go on from
star to star.”

"Sirius, and then on from star to star,”
mused Hollak. "You have surely ahead
of you the greatest adventures in the uni-
verse, though they almost ended today be-
neath the gas-globes of the Threns.”

"We’ve you to thank that they didn’t,”
March returned. “I admit that I’m curi-
ous about what you told us of the Threns
and Rhels. You say both were the an-
cestors of your own race of Kerts?”

"That is so,” Jurn answered. “The
first life in this system developed on the
innermost planet and there under its con-
ditions of intense heat and light evolved
into intelligent creatures in liquid form,
the Rhels. They are sexni-liquid proto-
plasmic masses with half-human heads.
Having great intelligence and scientific
knowledge, some of these Rhels built
space-ships and migrated to the second
planet.

"Its conditions of heat and gravitation
being different, the Rhels who settled
there evolved with time into a differently
formed race, roughly human in form but
with glistening protoplasmic flesh. Thus
was formed the race of Threns, and since
the Threns had some of the scientific
knowledge of their ancestors the Rhels,
some of them migrated in turn to this
outermost one of the three planets.

"On this planet, with its still different
conditions, the Threns settling here
changed in turn, developing tissues and
skin and blood instead of their proto-
plasmic flesh, and becoming in fact Kerts
or humans such as we are now. Such was
the origin of this system’s three races,
though no doubt the humans of your own
system developed by a different evolu-
tionary chain.

THE STAR-ROAMERS

467

"The Rhels have remained secluded on
their inner planet without holding any in-
tercourse with the other two races. The
Tbrens of the second planet, however,
have sought repeatedly to conquer and
enslave us Kerts, We have had to strug-
gle hard to repel them; for they are
slightly superior to us in scientific knowl-
edge and weapons, though inferior to the
Rhels in these.”

"Then this war of Threns and Kerts is
now going on?” March asked, and Jurn
nodded.

"Yes, and our situation is growing
menacing; for Grund is gathering the
Threns for a final attack on us. Grund
is the present Thren ruler and is one of
the hardest and most ruthless of his race.
He has overruled the many Threns who
would like to liye at peace with us, and
with his two lieutenants, Quamai and
Dron, has been preparing for a final con-
quest of our world and race,

"Undoubtedly Grund will loose his at-
tack on us before long, but seems waiting
now to find where we are weakest. If
Grund learns how our space-ships are dis-
posed in defense around our worid he can
attack the weakest side first and be cer-
tain of victory. Of late a force of Thren
ships has been hovering over our world
for some purpose we can not guess, but
which is undoubtedly part of Grund's
plan.”

"Those were the ships that attacked us
when we ran into them?” Newell asked.

"They were, and they would have
destroyed you had we not got the alarm
from our patrols in time,” Jum replied.
"As it was, the greater part of them es-
caped us; for we dared not chase them
too far out in space lest we be ambushed
by a superior force. They’re probably
hovering up there above our patrols yet.”

"They are only the vanguard of those
that will come,” interjected Hollak som-

berly. "When Grund strikes, the Threns
will pour down on our world like an
avalanche,”

"I am afraid it will be so,” Jum ad-
mitted, "I had hoped that the many
Threns who want peace with us would
have stopped this attack, but Grund has
overruled them. There’s nothing left for
us but to fight.”

T he conversation went on, March and
his companions rapidly learning by
this telepathic talk the language which
they were informed was spoken alike by
Kerts, Tbrens and Rhels. March a little
later stepped over to the balcony’s rail and
looked out over the city’s checkered lights.

The huge black bulk of the cubical
building behind him, shouldered against
the stars, seemed brooding on the Kert
city. From distant building-squares came
a dim hum of voices, and as March looked
up he could see a group of oval ships
dropping leisurely out of the night.

"Fighting here seems the real thing,”
he heard Connor saying. "Those gas-

globes you use, now ”

"What are those ships, patrols coming
in?” March turned to ask Hollak.

The ruler and Connor came to his side,
"What ships?” Hollak asked.

March pointed up to the descending
ships, that seemed dropping now almost
straight toward the balcony. Hollak
peered up at them. The oval ships sud-
denly deserted their leisurely slowness of
descent and dropped like plummets to
hang level beside the balcony.

With exdamations the three recoiled,
just as the space-doors of the ships burst
open. Out from them a stream of weird
figures poured onto the balcony, figures
human in shape but with glistening, skin-
less bodies! They bore gas-globe rods in
their grasp, but without using them they

468

WEIRD TALES

threw themselves toward the two rulers
and the earthmen.

"Thren raiders!” cried Hollak, his rod-
weapon leaping.

''They’re the Thren ships that have
been hovering over this world!” cried
Jurn. "I know now- — they’re after
us ”

The glistening-bodied Threns had
seized March and Connor and Hollak in
their first rush, knocking the weapon
from the latter’s grasp. Kert guards in
the great building were coming on the
run, shouting, while the big Thren who
seemed leader of the raiders was pointing
to Jurn and Hollak and bellowing to his
followers.

March, struggling with glistening fig-
ures, glimpsed Hollak being dragged into
a ship by four Threns and saw Connor,
when he leapt to free him, pulled after
him. Others were reaching for Jurn, but
March and Newell were fighting so fren-
ziedly beside him that they could not
overpower him.

There came the fierce cries of the Kert
guards bursting out on the balcony. The
Thren leader leapt back into a ship and it
and the other oval ships shot up into the
night. The Threns left on the balcony
turned desperately to face their oppo-
nents, but the Kerts had raised their rods,
and the white gas-globes that hurtled
from them crumbled and annihilated the
glistening raiders.

The fight on the balcony was over. The
Thren ships had disappeared into the
upper night, alarmed patrol-ships of the
Kerts racing after them, and March and
Newell and Jurn faced each other wild-
eyed.

"They got Connor!” cried March.
"They dragged him in after Hollak when
he tried to pull Hollak free!”

"I see it all now!” Jurn exclaimed.
"Those Threns have been hovering over

our world for days for that purpose, to
raid us and capture Hollak and myself.
This is Grund’s plan — to capture us two
before he starts the attack on our world.”
"And they tried to seize all of us — did
seize Tim — just to get you two!”

"But we’re not going to let them keep
Tim!” Newell burst. "Damn it, Rod,
where’s our ship? We’re going after
them!”

"Wait — wait!” Jurn interrupted.- "You
will not help your friend by following
him to a similar fate. He and Hollak
will undoubtedly be taken before Grand,
and whether or not Grand is able to get
information from them, he will not let
them live long.”

"The more reason for us to start after
them now!” Newell said. "Do you think
we’re going to let the Threns keep Tim
or Hollak either? We’ll go to the Thren
planet and yank them out of there!”
"Milt is right, Jurn,” said March, his
voice steely. "We’re not the kind to
sheer off and leave Tim to his fate.” •

"I understand,” Jurn said, "but you do
not know how hopeless such a project is.
You would have to go alone to the Thren
world; for with this attack hanging over
us I could not give you an escort of sup-
porting ships. And alone how can you
hope even to find your friend and Hollak,
let alone take them from the clutches of
Grand?”

"We can try, and we’re going to try,”
March answered. "Where on the Thren
world would they be taken, do you
think?”

Jurn shook his head. "None of us
Kerts know much of the Thren world,
but it is known that Grand has immense
central palaces from which he rales, his
aides Quarnal and Dron have separate pal-
aces. I think two prisoners of such im-
portance would be held in the palaces of
Grand.”

THE STAR-ROAMERS

469

"That gives us something to go on, at
least,” March said. "If we can reach the
palaces you speak of we can trust the rest
to luck.”

"You are foolish to walk thus into
death,” Jum said, "but if you must go, go
in one of our oval ships and not in your
cruiser. Our ships are the same in ap-
pearance as the Thren ships, and you will
have a far better chance of landing on the
Thren world in one.”

"That’s reasonable,” March agreed,
"but we don’t know the operation of your
ships and their weapons.”

"They are simple — you can learn in a
few hours,” Jurn said.

"But that means waiting till tomorrow
to start!” Newell protested.

Jurn regarded him. "What difference
will a few hours make? Grund will not
kill Hollak and your friend until he has
learned all possible from them, and if I
know Hollak, that will not be soon. And
this short delay will give you a far better
chance of reaching them.”

"He’s right, Milt,” March said. "We
can learn how to run these Kert ships be-
fore morning and start then.”

T hey spent the following hours of the
night in unceasing activity. By
morning, under the tutelage of Kert pi-
lots, they had learned the operation of the
oval ships, which they found were pro-
pelled by force-vibrations like their cruis-
er, though far inferior to it in speed. The
controls of the gas-globe weapons they
found quite simple.

They equipped themselves with ether-
pistols from their cruiser, and when the
two suns rose they were ready to start.
Jum was at hand to see them go, having
spent the night in gathering his world’s
forces against possible subsequent raids.

"You are brave men, men from the
stars,” he told them. "Your cruiser shall

be safely guarded and will be here for
you if you return.”

"There are no ifs about it,” March
smiled. "We’ll be back, and Connor and
Hollak with us. And if possible we’ll
give your friend Grand a sock in the eye
while we’re calling on him.”

"That’s if Tim and Hollak haven’t
done it already,” Newell added.

They shook Jura’s hand and then the
space-door shut after them and the oval
craft shot up into the blazing light of the
two rising suns. It climbed up and out in
spirals from the planet’s atmosphere, hov-
ered for a moment, and then shot through
space in the direction of the suns, toward
the planet of the Threns.

3

W HEN the Thren raiders had dragged
Hollak from the balcony into one
of their hanging ships, Connor had leapt
to his aid only to be grasped by a half-
dozen Threns and dragged after him.
Connor struck out fiercely and was strug-
gling still as the Kert guards called by
Jura burst onto the balcony. Then, as
the ships shot upward, some one struck
him a stunning blow on the head and for
the moment he knew no more.

When Connor came back to conscious-
ness he found himself half lying against a
wall with Hollak reviving him. He re-
membered at sight of the big Kert and
grasped his arm.

"What happened? Were Rod or Milt
hurt?” he demanded.

Hollak shook his head. "None was
hurt that I could see, and none but our-
selves captured.”

"Captured?” Connor’s jaw dropped.
"We two captured?”

He looked amazedly about him. He
and Hollak sat in the corner of a metal-
walled compartment. The humming of

4 70

WEIRD TALES

mechanisms and quiver of motion told
them that it was part of a ship racing
through space. Opposite Hollak and
Connor stood three Threns, watching
with gas-globe rods ready.

Connor stared at them, seeing them fully
for the first time. The Threns were weird
figures, having bodies, limbs and hairless
heads of human shape and size, with hu-
man eyes and features and harness-cloth-
ing, but with glistening protoplasmic
flesh instead of ordinaiy human tissues.
Connor could half discern their arm and
leg-bones through their translucent, rub-
bery flesh! They were watching the two
captives steadily.

"Holy smoke— and these birds are the
Threns!” he exclaimed. "What are they
going to do with us?”

"Whatever it is, it isn’t likely to be
pleasant,” Hollak answered. "This ship
is on its way with the others to their
world.”

The compartment’s door opened and
two other Threns entered. Connor rec-
ognized the largest, one as big as Hollak,
as the leader of the attack on the balcony.
This Thren stared contemptuously at
them.

"So, Hollak, you go with us to be the
guest of Grund,” he said, using the lan-
guage which served all three races and
which Connor and his friends had learned
much of in telepathic conversation with
Jurn and Hollak. "Grund will be glad
to see you,” the Thren continued, "though
he will be sorry we couldn’t bring Jurn
also. He’ll be glad to hear all you can
tell him about the forces of your race of
slaves.”

"Grund will learn nothing from me,
and you know it, Quanta!,” answered
Hollak.

. "You are obstinate now, but when my
torturers work on you you’ll talk,” Quar-

nal warned. "You won’t be the first Kert
I’ve had them twist to shapelessness.”

"Is it so?” said Hollak quietly. “Then
for these others when the times comes,
Quarnal, I am going to kill you— slowly.”
Quarnal started toward him, glistening
features contorted with rage, but the
other Thren jerked him back.

“Enough of this, Quarnal!” he
snapped. “I know your ways, but there’ll
be no prisoner-torturing in my presence!”
Quarnal turned angrily on him. "You
are strangely solicitous about our enemies,
Dron!” he snarled. "So solicitous indeed
that even Grund has begun to wonder
whether you are Thren or Kert!”

Dron faced him calmly. "I am Thren,
and all know it,” he said, "but though I
fight as a Thren I think as a reasoning
being, and I see that these wars of ours
on the Kerts are folly. And you need not
carry that tale to Grund, for I said as
much to him myself!”

"So Grund told me,” said Quarnal, his
tone subtly menacing. He turned back to
the prisoners. "Enough for you at pres-
ent, Hollak,” he said. "Who is this
strange-garbed son of a slave we took
with you?”

Connor’s wrath had been rising to
bursting-point during the preceding ex-
changes, and now he found utterance.

"Listen, you half -finished excuse for a
human being,” he told Quarnal. "I come
from another solar system and it’s one
where you and your crowd would be hung
up to dry in three seconds flat. Your face
gives me a pain, your talk is foolish, your
manners don’t exist, and in short I’m be-
ginning to think I don’t like you.”

"From another star?” Quarnal said,
and laughed. "Then you have come a
long way to be killed. You prevented us
from taking Jurn, and I think Grund will
be glad to see you.”

He left the compartment with that, and

THE STAR-ROAMERS

471

Dron, distaste evident on his face, fol-
lowed.

"So that’s why Grand ordered the cap-
ture of Jum and myself,” Hollak com-
mented, "to take our race’s leaders and
torture information about our forces from
us. Well, they didn’t get Jurn and they’ll
get no information from me.”

"That Quarnal is sure poison,” Connor
said, "though the other one, Dron, seems
regular.”

"Dron is one of the Threns who hate
this warring with the Kerts but whom
Grand has overruled,” Hollak told him.
"But neither Dron nor those who believe
with him will be able to save us from
Grand when we reach the second planet.
And we’ll be reaching it in hours.”

I N the next hours the ship in which
they were prisoned sped steadily on
through space. From the compartment’s
window they could look out, though the
guards did not relax their vigilance.

Through this window Connor saw that
the ship, with other similar oval ships
around it, was racing in toward the sec-
ond planet that glowed like a steady star
in the blackness of space. Beyond this
planet of the Threns, on the other side of
the two suns, he could make out the light-
point of the innermost planet, the planet
of the Rhels.

The Thren planet grew ahead of them
to a buff-colored ball, and soon the ships
were rushing down through its atmos-
phere. The ships came to rest, and Con-
nor and Hollak were marched out into the
open air by Quarnal and Dron and a
group of guards. The Thren world lay
about them in the brilliant sunlight.

It was covered like the world of the
Kerts by a single city, denoting a great
population. But though this city’s build-
ings were also black and cubical, there
were no vegetation-squares checkering

them. In the streets, crowds of Threns,
glistening and weird figures, thronged
busily, and Connor could see some Kerts
who carried burdens and were quite
evidently captive slaves. Hollak growled
deep in his chest at sight of these.

The ships had landed on a broad park
that surrounded immense cubical build-
ings, by far the largest they had seen on
either world. Into one of these they were
conducted.

In a few minutes they were halted near
the center of a long, high-windowed hall
crowded with Threns, while Quarnal and
Dron made their report to Grand.

Grand, ruler of the Threns, was a dom-
inant figure as he sat on his throne-like
erection at the hall’s end, officials and
guards about him. Connor forgot the
glistening body as he saw Grand’s cold,
keen eyes. It was evident that the report
of Quarnal and Dron displeased Grand.

"You should have taken them both!”
he snapped to Quarnal. "You took Hol-
lak — why not Jurn?”

"It was because of the strangely garbed
men with them, who fought us off long
enough for the guards to get there,”
Quarnal explained. "We took one of
them and might have taken Jurn despite
them if Dron had taken part in the
attack,” he added maliciously.

"I do not like such sneaking exploits,”
said Dron directly. "Such raids are mis-
takes — many of our people say that that
other raid you ordered will bring disaster
on us.”

Grand eyed him narrowly. "And you
do not discourage them from saying that,
do you?” he asked softly but with deadly
emphasis. "You grow somewhat too
bold, Dron. Remember that I am ruler
of the Threns and not you, and that while
I rale we’ll go on until these Kerts are
conquered and made what they should be,
our slaves.”

472

WEIRD TALES

He made a gesture, and the guards
jerked Hollak and Connor forward. Hol-
lak eyed the Thren ruler levelly.

"Your head will not be so high before
long, Hollak," said Grund. "Will you
tell me what forces of ships the Kerts
have and how they are placed around your
world?”

"You know that I will not,” Hollak
answered contemptuously.

Grund’s cold eyes did not change.
"We will see— we will see. A few hours
of torture sometimes works wonders. I
will give you a night in which to consider
that fact, and if then you are not more
willing, we’ll see what Quarnal and his
followers can do with you.”

"We will, will we?” Connor exclaimed.
“Say, if you want to keep Quarnal
healthy, keep him out of my reach, or I'll
smack him down so flat you can write a
letter home on him!”

Grund’s gaze switched to Connor, and
Quarnal spoke a few words of explana-
tion. "You say he is from another star?”
Grund said. "What matters it? — he is
one of those who blocked your capture of
Jum. You need not have brought him
here. Dispose of him.”

Quarnal’s rod came up to loose a gas-
globe at Connor, but before the Thren
could use the weapon Hollak stepped be-
tween it and the earthman.

"If you kili this man you will kill me
with him,” Hollak informed Quarnal.
Quarnal’s savage change of expression
showed that he meant to do so, but a quick
sign from Grund made him desist.

"Let him live for the present, then,”
Grund ordered, "since Hollak must live
until we have learned what we want from
him. Put the two of them down there
with the other, and if Hollak hasn’t talked
by morning you can start your torturers
to work on him.”

O uarnal gave an order to the guards
and they followed him back out of
the hall, marching Connor and Hollak
with them. They passed through curving
corridors and ramps leading downward,
until Connor estimated that they were
some distance below ground-level. En-
tering a corridor with barred doors along
it, they moved down it and halted before
one of the doors. A guard unbarred and
opened it and Quarnal motioned them in-
side.

"Remember, Kert,” he said to Hollak,
"that unless your tongue loosens by morn-
ing my torturers will show me their skill
on you!”

Hollak turned in the door, "You,
Quarnal, remember this,” he said levelly,
"that I have promised to kill you and that
I have never yet broken a promise,”
"That’ll hold you,” observed Connor
to Quarnal. "And you can tell Grund
that I wish him the same and many of
them.”

Connor and Hollak were thrust on
through the door and it clanged shut
after them, the bar falling. They heard
Quarnal order one of the Thren guards to
remain outside it, and then he moved off
with the others.

They looked about their prison. It was
a small room, dimly lit by a ray of waning
light from a tiny loophole in the wall, the
only opening.

Connor put his hand on Hollak’s
shoulder. "That’s one I owe you, Hol-
lak,’’ he observed. "Quarnal was set to
give me the works when you stepped be-
tween us,”

"We are but quits; for you were taken
trying to save me,” Hollak told him.
"Besides, I knew Grund would not let me
be killed until he had learned what he
wants to know from me, how our Kert
forces are divided on our world. He is
holding his attack on our world until he

THE STAR-ROAMERS

473

learns in this way its weakest point, but
he’ll never learn it from me.”

"That’s the spirit,” Connor approved,
"though this fix we’re in isn’t much to
my — what was that?”

Something had moved in the darkness
of the little room, something that was
coming toward them with a soft, slither-
ing sound.

"It’s some one they’ve prisoned us
with!” Hollak exclaimed. "You remem-
ber, Grand ordered them to put us down
here with the other.”

"But good Lord, look at him!” Connor
cried, stupefied.

"It’s a Rhel!” Hollak exclaimed. "A
Rhel prisoner of the Threns!”

The figure advancing toward them was
staggeringly weird in appearance as it
emerged into the single ray’s dim light. It
seemed a great viscous mass of translu-
cent flesh like that of the Threns’ bodies.
But it was simply a mass, without perma-
nent form, flowing forward and reaching
out great pseudopod-tentacles as an ameba
does.

Set at the center of this flowing mass
was its one permanent feature, the head.
It was a glistening head like those of the
Threns, with dark human-like eyes and a
mouth below them, the black nerve-con-
nections branching from this head being
visible in the translucent mass of the body.
The creature was speaking to Connor and
Hollak in a low, hissing voice.

"Yes, a Rhel prisoner of the Threns,” it
was saying. "And I, Xydd, am first of the
Rhels that the Threns have ever dared to
imprison.”

"A Rhel!” Connor was exclaiming, and
Hollak nodded quickly. "Yes, one of the
race of the inner planet who were ances-
tors of both Threns and Kerts. They
have never had intercourse with the other
planets, this being the first Rhel I have
ever really seen myself."

"How comes it that the Threns dared
capture you?” he asked Xydd.

"It was simple enough,” Xydd an-
swered. "I am one of the greatest of the
Rhel scientists, and this Grand, the Thren
ruler, sent a raiding party to capture
Rhel scientists so that he might gain from
them knowledge of new weapons with
which to conquer you Kerts. His raiders
came to our world, and since we have no
guards, none ever before daring to molest
us, they found it easy to penetrate our city
unobserved by night and to capture me in
my laboratory.

"They saw no chance to capture others
of our scientists; so they left and brought
me here. Their ruler, this Grand, de-
manded that I design new weapons for
him to use against the Kerts. I told him
that I, Xydd, was a Rhel and that when
Mnann, ruler of the Rhels, learned what
he had dared do, the Rhels would take a
terrible retribution. He answered that
Mnann would never learn and that in any
case he feared none in the three worlds.
I was imprisoned here with Grand’s
warning that unless I acceded to his de-
mand I would meet death, and I think
that will be soon now.”

"So Grand dared do that, capture a
Rhel!” exclaimed Hollak. "Then that
was what Dron referred to when he said
that the Thren people feared the other
raid would bring disaster on them.”
"Who is this with you?” asked Xydd.
"He seems a Kert, yet different.”

Briefly Hollak explained Connor’s or-
igin. The Rhel seemed highly interested,
his dark eyes running over Connor.

"So you came with others from another
star? We Rhels have long thought that
possible, though engrossed in different
researches we have never investigated the
matter. I should be interested in seeing
your star’s worlds— for though your peo-
ple can not rival the Rhels in knowledge,

474

WEIRD TALES

they must have made considerable prog-
ress.”

Hollak intervened impatiently. "It is
no time for scientific speculations,” he
told Xydd, "but for us to think of what
we are to do.”

"What we are to do?” echoed Xydd.
"That is easy — we will wait here, and be-
fore long the Threns will put us to death
for not telling them the things they wish
to know.”

"Some program,” Connor commented.
"Don’t you even want to make a try to
get out of here?”

"Of what use to try? I am sorry to
die now, for I was engaged in a very in-
teresting scientific study in my world; but
since we can not escape there is no help
in feeding ourselves with useless hopes.”

"There must be some way of escape,”
Hollak insisted.

"There is none,” Xydd repeated. "The
first day I was prisoned here I concen-
trated all my mental power on possibil-
ities of escape. I found there was none,
and so dismissed the question from my
mind.”

In the next hours, rack their brains as
they might, Connor and Hollak had no
better success than Xydd. It seemed im-
possible to escape from their cell, and in
time they gave up discussing impossible
schemes.

Darkness had fallen outside and the
dim ray of sunlight from the loophole
was replaced by an equally dim source-
less light that came into being in the room
with the coming of night.

Connor and Hollak and Xydd had sat
silent for some time, when there was an
exchange of voices outside their door and
they heard it unbarred and opened. A
figure stepped inside, the door being
closed and locked after him by the guard.

The three prisoners stared at the new-
comer.

It was Dron.

4

D ron at once revealed his purpose in
coming. "My business is with
Xydd,” he told Hollak and Connor.

"Xydd,” he said to the Rhel, "since
your capture by Grund’s raiders became
known, many of us Threns have been
very anxious. We fear that by his rash
action Grand has made the whole Rhel
race our enemies.”

"You fear rightly,” Xydd told him
calmly. "If Mnann, ruler of the Rhels,
learns of it, your people will know the
Rhel vengeance.”

"But we have no desire to become en-
emies of the Rhels, whatever Grand has
done!” Dron exclaimed. "The great ma-
jority of us disapprove even of this war of
conquest against the Kelts.”

"Why do you tell me this?” Xydd
asked him.

"For this reason,” Dron returned.
"There are many of us who would like to
release you from this prison to go back to
your own world. If we did this would it
placate your people when they learned of
what had happened?”

Before Xydd could answer the door
flew open. Quarnal stood in it, the single
Thren door-guard behind him. Quar-
nal’s face was aflame with evil triumph.

"So I’ve caught you at last, Dron!” he
exulted. "You would release this Rhel
prisoner, would you? I think Grand will
thank me for this news.”

Connor whispered tensely to Hollak.
"Hollak, here’s our chance! Take Quar-
nal and I’ll take the guard — quick ”

Connor had seen their opportunity.
Quarnal’s triumph at overhearing his fel-
low-Thren had made him forget for the
moment that the cell’s door was open and

THE STAR-ROAMERS

475

that but one guard stood behind him. So
his denunciation of Dron was hardly out
of Quarnal’ s mouth before Hollak had
leapt upon him. Connor sprang for the
guard.

With a terrific blow of his clenched fist
Connor drove the guard against the wall,
where he fell to the floor stunned. Quarnal
had given a brief bellow of rage as Hol-
lak seized him, and as Connor turned he
saw that Hollak held the Thren in his
great arms, while Xydd had reached quick
pseudopod arms to pull down Dron.

For a moment there was silence in the
cell, Quarnal straining every muscle to
break free of Hollak’s grip. Hollak’s arm
went higher, around his glistening neck,
and Quarnal’s eyes protruded, became
dreadful. Then Hollak* s arm closed with
tremendous power, there was a dull snap,
and Quarnal’s head rolled limp. Hollak
let the dead Thren fall to the floor.

”1 promised him that I would kill
him,” he panted.

"What of this one?” Xydd asked. He
was holding Dron bound and gagged by
four powerful pseudopod-arms. "Shall I
kill him also?”

"No,” Connor said. "He’s too good a
guy for that, even if he is a Thren.”

"We'll tie and gag him to keep him
from giving the alarm,” Hollak said.
"Quick — his harness-straps ”

They secured and gagged Dron with
the belts of his own harness. His gas-
globe rod, and those of Quarnal and the
guard, they quickly retrieved, Hollak
showing Connor the catch by which the
rods were operated. They hurried then
out into the corridor.

No one was in sight along its dim-lit
length.

"Come on!” Hollak said. "If we can
get out of this building we may be able to
steal a ship in the darkness outside.”

"Here’s hoping!” Connor returned as

they hastened along the corridor. * ’What-
ever happens. I’m glad Quarnal got what
was coming to him.”

"Careful!" Xydd warned suddenly.
"My hearing is better than yours— I can
hear voices from around the corridor’s
turn.”

They crept on with sudden stealth.
They made three weirdly dissimilar fig-
ures in the dim corridor— Connor in his
tight-fitting space-jacket, the huge Hol-
lak in his black harness, the monstrous
human-headed Xydd with viscous body
flowing smoothly beside them. Their
rods were raised as they came to the hall’s
turn and peered around it.

Two guards were stationed at separate
doors not a dozen feet around the turn,
and these two Threns glimpsed the three
a second too late as they appeared at the
corner; for from the rods of Xydd and
Hollak and Connor leapt white gas-
globes that crumbled and annihilated the
two Threns as they raised their own
weapons.

T he three moved swiftly on, follow-
ing a branch corridor that seemed to
lead upward. The immense building
over them was largely silent; its dim cor-
ridors were almost deserted. The one
they followed debouched suddenly into
the outside air, and they found themselves
in the darkness just outside the wall of
Grund’s huge palaces.

The world-covering city of the Threns
extended before them in the darkness, a
plain of twinkling lights. There were
some lights in the huge buildings behind
them, too, and among the scores of ships
resting in tire surrounding park. Toward
the nearest of these ships the trio moved
swiftly, Xydd gliding easily beside the
running Connor and Hollak.

They were beside the nearest oval ship
when they flattened themselves suddenly

476

WEIRD TALES

under its curve. A ship was descending
from above! It was an oval ship that
circled down very slowly over the park
and then came to rest directly beside the
craft under which they crouched. The
space-door of the newly landed ship
swung open and before the three could
change position two figures had emerged
from this door, stepping from it almost
directly into the crouching three.

There was a low cry from one of them,
a rush of dark shadows, and then before
either party could use their gas-rods they
were struggling hand to hand. Connor
knew that a cry from the two would sum-
mon Thren guards, but to his amaze-
ment there came no cry from them. And
in a moment he knew the reason, for
as he struggled fiercely with one of the
two his hands encountered in the dark-
ness not the glistening body of a Thren
but a body clothed in a space- jacket like
his own!

He uttered an exclamation, pawing at
his opponent. "Good God — it’s Con-
nor!” exclaimed his antagonist at that
moment. "Rod, it’s Tim!”

"Milt Newell!” gasped Connor. "What
the devil — is the other one Rod?”

"It is,” announced March, freeing him-
self from Hollak as the big Kert now
recognized his antagonist. "And damn
glad to see you again, Tim!”

"Speak for yourself,” Newell said.
"This red-headed baboon almost choked
the life out of me.”

"I surely would have if I’d known
whom I was choking!” Connor declared.

March was smiling to himself in the
darkness at this exchange, for he could
guess not only how anxious Connor and
Newell had been about each other but
how fearful each was of showing it.

"It’s sheer luck we found you this
way,” he told Hollak and Connor. "Milt
and I reached this world hours ago, and

after locating those palaces from high
above, we waited until night to come
down in this ship and try getting inside
them.”

Xydd’s hissing voice came from the
darkness. "If we are to escape it had best
be soon,” he warned. "They will find
Dron and give the alarm at any moment.”

"Who’s that?” exclaimed March, mak-
ing out Xydd’s weird form for the first
time.

Briefly Connor explained how he and
Hollak had been prisoned with the Rhel
and had escaped with him. March’s eyes
lit.

"Then this is your chance to smash
Grund’s plans for good, Hollak!” he ex-
claimed. "If Xydd will raise the Rhels
and you go back and gather the Kert
forces, the two combined can crush
Grund and the Threns.”

"By the two suns, it is so!” Hollak ex-
claimed. "Xydd, do you agree to that?”

"I am not the ruler of the Rhels,”
Xydd answered, "but I am sure that
Mnann, who is ruler, will agree when he
hears my tale. I can guarantee to have
the Rhel forces here for the attack.”

"Then that settles it!” Hollak cried. "I
will go back to the third planet and Jurn
and I will bring all the Kert forces here
to meet the Rhels over this world at noon
of the third day from this, and make a
combined attack on Grund and his
Threns.”

"That means we’ll have to steal one of
these ships,” March planned swiftly, "and
some of us will have to go with Xydd in
it to his world, in case he meets Thren
ships in space and has to fight; and some
will have to go back with Hollak for the
same reason.”

"I’ll go back with Hollak,” Newell
said. "I know how to work the ship’s
gas-globe v/eapons in case he runs into

THE STAR-ROAMEES

477

t

trouble. You and Tim can go on with
Xydd.”

"Then it’s agreed. Remember,” March
added to Hollak, "noon of the third day
from this for the attack.”

"Jurn and I will be ready with every
Kert ship,” Hollak answered tersely.

"Into this ship with you, then!” March
told him and Newell. '"We three will
take one of these others — quick!”

In a moment the ship’s space-door had
shut after Newell and Hollak, and their
craft was humming up into the night.
March and Xydd and Connor raced to the
door of one of the parked oval ships be-
side them. They were entering the ship
when from the immense black palaces of
Grand came a rising clamor.

"They’ve found Dron!” Connor cried.
"The sooner we’re out of here the health-
ier!”

March was already in the pilot’s seat of
the ship. "Can you work the gas-globe
weapons, of this ship, Xydd?” he cried to
the Rhel as their ship rose from the park.

For answer Xydd grasped the gas-globe
controls with two pseudopod-arms. Con-
nor, gazing down as their craft shot up-
ward, uttered a cry. "They’re after us
already, Rod!”

T hren ships that had been over the
city, attracted by the alarm at the pal-
aces, were darting up after them. March
held the controls grimly open, the oval
ship flashing out through the planet’s at-
mosphere with the pursuing ones grouped
behind.

Almost before they knew it the roar of
air about the ship died as its great speed
took it clear of the planet’s atmosphere
and into free space. Before them flamed
Alpha Centauri’s two suns, one partly
hiding the other, with the light-spot of
the world of the Rhels on the other side

of them. They were heading through
space toward that light-spot.

"They’re creeping closer,” Xydd an-
nounced. "They’ll be abreast of us
shortly!”

"If we only were in our own cruiser!”
Connor exclaimed. "We’d leave those
ships out of sight in a second.”

"How many are there after us, Xydd?”
March asked.

"Four that I can make out,” the Rhel
answered. "They’re coming still closer —
will be using their gas-globes in a mo-
ment ”

Almost as he spoke March glimpsed the
dark Thren ships drawing into sight in
space beside them. He slanted their ship
sharply upward as his eyes caught the flash
of white gas-globes from the Thren craft.

The globes missed, and as they hurtled
past, Xydd shot two gas-globes from their
own ship. One missed, but the other
struck and the four Thren ships became
abruptly three.

"One of them!” March exclaimed.
"Keep at it, Xydd!”

"If this ship only had ether-guns!”
groaned Connor.

The Thren ships were darting close
again to the fleeing craft, March swerving
this way and that to confuse them. Dead-
ly white gas-globes were hurtling again in
a crisscross between pursuers and pur-
sued as they held to this running fight —
racing on through space. . . .

5

M arch for a moment thought it the
end as white gas-globes hurtled all
around their ship. But miraculously they
were unhit, and then the straggle came to
an abrupt end. The Thren ships had
darted close to release those gas-globes,
and now Xydd drove globes at them in
swift succession. Two struck, two Thren

478

WEIRD TALES

ships crumbled, and the remaining one
sheered off, halted and turned backward,
vanishing from sight

"Good work, Xydd!” cried Connor ap-
provingly. "Though I still wish I’d had
an ether-gun’s grips in my hands.”

"No more ships in sight behind us,”
Xydd reported. "I think we’ve shaken
off all pursuit.”

"And Hollak and Newell must have
got clear, for they had a start on us,”
March said.

"On to the first planet, then!” Connor
exclaimed. “And if all the Rhels there
can fight like Xydd, it’s good-bye Grund!”

For a score of hours their ship hummed
at its highest speed, a comparatively great
one, toward the light-spot of the inner-
most planet. To reach it they must pass
the two flaming suns of Alpha Centauri,
and this they did as closely as they dared.
The two suns were sights of awesome
splendor with their great coronas, and
with their huge prominences that seemed
licking out toward the passing ship.

At last the innermost planet was a dull
globe ahead. They tore in through its
atmosphere and slanted toward its sur-
face.

Like the world of the Threns, it was
covered by a city, but this city of the Rhels
was different in many respects. Its square
buildings were quite roofless, bespeaking
a perfect weather-control. Its wide streets
held throngs of the weird Rhels, human-
headed viscous masses gliding to and fro
in the sunlight and warmth of the two
suns, which were intense on this inner-
most world. No ships at all were in sight
over it.

Xydd directed March to land before a
low, square, roofless building inside
which a dozen smaller square structures
could be seen, each enclosed within the
next. March and Connor had no sooner
stepped out of the ship with Xydd than a

mass of the Rhels had gathered about
them, many bearing unfamiliar-looking
weapons.

Xydd made rapid explanations to them
and then the three passed into the strange
great structure. In minutes they stood in
its inmost square before Mnann, ruler of
the Rhels.

Mnann, a viscous-bodied creature with
a head unusually large even for a Rhel,
listened in calm silence to Xydd’s story.
When Xydd had finished Mnann seemed
to meditate.

He spoke finally. "Your unaccount-
able absence was reported to me, Xydd,
but I had not dreamed that Grund and
his Threns would have dared seize you, a
Rhel. For ages none has dared molest us
here.”

"Yet Grund dared,” Xydd told him,
"and will dare even more in the future.
I think he means to master all the three
worlds if he can,”

"And I think it is time the Rhels taught
him and the Threns a lesson,” Mnann re-
turned. "You say the Kerts will be ready
to attack his world at the time mentioned?
Then we Rhels will be there also with our
ships, and will have a reckoning with
Grund.”

"With your ships?” Connor repeated.
"Do you have any? I haven’t seen one
on this world.”

"We do not use space-ships ordinar-
ily,” Mnann told him, "for we have no
intercourse with the other two planets.
But we have ships stored, and weapons
too, so that in an emergency we can pro-
tect ourselves. I will order them brought
forth at once — our force will have to start
soon if we’re to reach the Thren world at
the time set.”

There followed a scene that astonished
March and Connor. Mnann gave an
order, and as scores of Rhels glided swift-

THE STAR-ROAMERS

479

]y off to execute it the Rhel world became
alive with activity.

Great sections of the wide streets were
sfid aside, exposing cavern-like hangars
beneath that held oval ships much larger
than those of either the Threns or Kerts.
These were rapidly brought forth and
their mechanisms and weapons inspected
by crews of Rhels. All these preparations
were carried out with a swift efficiency
that was an index to the co-operative qual-
ity of the Rhel civilization.

W hile the preparations went on,
March and Connor snatched much-
needed sleep in one of the roofless rooms
of the Rhel ruler’s structure. When they
awoke, the two suns had travelled down
the sky to the planet’s horizon, and when
they went to join Mnann they found him
with Xydd and his other weird-bodied
lieutenants.

"Our forces are ready to start,” Mnann
informed the earthmen. "I have been
hearing from Xydd that you two are from
another sun’s system — is it aught like this
one of ours?”

''It is in some ways,” March said, "but
in others different. For one thing, the
wars of our system’s worlds ended long
ago, whereas the three races of this system
seem still hostile to each other.”

"That is so,” said Mnann thoughtfully,
"and it should not be so, many of us have
long thought. But enough of this for the
present — the ships are ready.”

Minutes later a force of three hundred
great ships rose from the Rhel world in
regular columns. March and Connor
stood with Mnann and Xydd and a half-
dozen other Rhels in the pilot section of
the foremost ship as the fleet sailed out
from the inner planet.

"You use the same gas-globe weapons
as the Threns and Kerts?” Connor asked,
but Mnann’ s answer was negative.

"No, we have other weapons, devised
to protect ourselves but which we have
scarcely ever used.”

The Rhel fleet throbbed steadily at top-
most speed through the void for the fol-
lowing hours. They passed the two suns
of Alpha Centauri, giving them a some-
what wider berth than March had done,
and drew visibly closer to the shining
planet of the Threns.

March estimated that at their present
progress they would reach the second
planet at almost exactly the time set, when
Jurn and Hollak and the Kert forces
should arrive also.

"I hope Milt and Hollak got through
all right,” Connor said. "If they didn’t
the Kerts won’t be there to join us.”

"I think they must hav£ made it,”
March reassured him. "Well know
soon, in any case.”

Mnann gave an order and the fleet
slackened speed as it approached the ball-
like Thren planet. The Rhel ships pro-
ceeded in a regular formation with all in
them watching intently, as they moved in
space over the Thren world.

There came an exclamation as some one
in the pilot room sighted ships ahead, and
pointed. There were four hundred oval
ships approaching, in compact battle-for-
mation, coming forv/ard with cautious
slowness.

They peered narrowly. "Oval ships —
they may be either Thren or Kert ships,”
March said. "If they’re Threns it means
the Kerts haven’t shown up.”

"They’re not, they’re Kert ships!” cried
Connor. "See the three-circle symbols on
their sides!”

The Kert fleet came warily on until it
had recognized the Rhel ships, and then
one of the Kert craft drove up to hang
beside the ship of Mnann. In its pilot
room could be glimpsed Jurn and Hollak
and Newell. Swiftly a tubular space-

489

WEIRD TALES

gangway was run out from the space-door
of the Rhel craft to the other, and in a
moment the three from the other had
joined March and Connor and the Rhel
leaders.

The faces of Jurn and Hollak gleamed
with intense excitement, and it was with
a very apparent respect tinged with awe
that they met the great Rhel ruler.

"We have brought all cur ships,” Jura
told Mnann, "and every Kent in them is
eager for the battle.”

"And the Thren fleet will be waiting
for us!” Hollak added. "Grund will have
known what our escape meant,”

"It is well that you are here,” Mnann
told Jurn and Hollak, "but it will be best
for your ships to take up formation be-
hind and within the formation of our own
Rhel fleet. Then we can move down to
the attack.”

Jurn and Hollak stared, "But by the
two suns,” Hollak exclaimed, "you can’t
expect us Kerts to let you do our fighting
for vs!”

"You tell him, .Hollak!” approved
Connor. "The Rhels can’t hog the whole
scrap!”

"It will be best as I have said,” Mnann
calmly repeated.

Jurn intervened. "Mnann is right,
Hollak,” he said, "There’ll be fighting
enough for all when we meet the Thren

fleet”

"Very well, then,” Hollak reluctantly
agreed.

J urn and Hollak returned to their own
ship, the space-gangway was with-
drawn, and the Rhel ships proceeded to
form a great wedge, inside and behind
which the Kert fleet placed itself. Then
this triangle moved down toward the
Thren world.

Air roared outside as the combined fleet
entered the atmosphere of the big buff

planet As they moved down through
this, two oval ships that had been patrol-
ling beneath suddenly darted downward
at top speed.

"Thren scouts,” commented Mnann.
"Grund expects our attack and will he
ready for it. Well, it will be over for
them so much the sooner.”

"Confident, isn’t he?” Connor whis-
pered to March and Newell. "He seems to
think this is going to be a push-over, but
those Threns are tough eggs.”

"He knows what he’s about, I sup-
pose,” said March doubtfully.

In a few minutes there came into sight
ahead of them, over the Thren planet, a
mass of dark dots. This grew, as it
neared them, into a fleet of several hun-
dred oval ships, heading toward them in
a circular formation adapted either to of-
fense or defense. At sight of it the Rhel
and Kert fleet slowed until it hung mo-
tionless in the air.

The circle of Thren ships slowed also,
as .though expecting a sudden dash from
their enemies. But as the Rhel and Kert
ships remained motionless the Threns
seemed to lose their doubts, their circle
leaping forward with renewed speed. It
was opening as it did so and in moments
would have flashed round the Rhel and
Kert fleet to enclose it.

"What’s the matter with these birds?”
demanded Connor tensely. "Don’t they
see we’ll have those hundreds of Threns
on all sides of us in a moment, all their
gas-globes going?”

"Quiet, Tim,” warned March. "This
is their battle.”

"Wait,” Xydd told the earthmen.
"You will soon see the Rhel power.”

Mnann was gazing calmly at the on-
rushing Thren ships. Even March had
begun to doubt, but at the moment that
the Thren circle seemed almost on and

W. T.— 5

THE STAR-ROAMERS

481

around them, Mnann spoke briefly and a
signal flashed.

From the three hundred Rhel ships
there sprang instantly flashes of blinding
white flame toward the Thren ships. The
flame-flashes blasted and annihilated the
Thren craft they struck, and did not go
out when they had done so but leapt
through the air to neighboring ships to
blast them also. The flame-flashes were
burning up the Thren fleet, leaping from
ship to ship.

The Thren ships yet untouched by the
flames were scattering madly, seeking
flight, but the flame-flashes leapt after
them, devoured almost all of them. In a
few moments, before the stupefied eyes
of Connor and March and Newell, nine-
tenths of the hundreds of Thren ships had
been annihilated without loosing a gas-
globe, and as the flame-flashes went out in
the air the survivors were in mad flight.

"You have seen," came Mnann’s calm
voice. "The retribution of the Rhels.”

Connor turned to him, shaken. "I
take it all back, Mnann,” he said. "When
it comes to fighting, you Rhels know your
business!”

"We descend now to find Grund,”
Mnann said. "It is he who ordered the
seizing of a Rhel, and for him we have
come.”

T he combined fleet of Rhel and Kert
ships dropped rapidly toward the
planet below, but halted a few thousand
feet above its surface.

The Thren city that covered the planet
was the scene of a wild battle between
different swarms of the Threns.

This struggle seemed centered on the
great black palaces of Grund, whose
guards were striving to hold back Thren
hordes pouring from all directions toward
it. The Rhels and Kerts above, gazing
down in astonishment, could see the play
W. T.— 6

of white gas-globes. In the intensity of
this wild civil combat the Threns did not
notice the ships hanging above.

"Holy smoke — the Threns are massa-
cring each other!” Connor exclaimed.
"What the devil does it mean?”

"Whatever they’re fighting about, its
almost over,” Kydd said.

The struggle across the city had died
out and the fighting at Grund’s palaces
was ceasing as the guards there were over-
come.

"Let’s go on down, then,” urged New-
ell. "There’ll be no resistance from that
wild mob.”

Mnann gave the order and the fleet
descended rapidly. As they dropped
through the sunlight the wild crowds of
Threns below saw them for the first time
and scattered.

The greater part of the Rhel and Kert
ships remained hovering while a score
descended to land in the park around
Grund’s palaces. From these ships
emerged Rhels and Kerts, including
Mnann and Xydd and Connor and New-
ell and March, and Jurn and Hollak.

They were moving toward the great
palaces when a party of Threns emerged
and approached them. Mnann and his
companions waited their approach, and as
they came near, Connor and Hollak and
Xydd recognized the Thren at their head
as Dron.

"We Rhels have come for Grund,”
Mnann said to him, "and will spare your
race if you do not resist us.”

"Grund is dead,” Dron told them.
"He was killed but minutes ago.”

"Grund killed!” exclaimed Hollak.
"By whom?”

"By myself and my followers,” Dron
answered calmly. "Many of us Threns
have long hated Grund’s plans of war
and conquest. When the survivors of our

482

WEIRD TALES

fleet returned but now with news that the
Rhels had destroyed our ships and were
approaching with the Kerts, our Thren
people realized that this was the result of
Grund’ s doing, and revolt broke out.
When we stormed the palace but now,
Grund was in it and died fighting. The
Threns have now named me as their new
ruler.

"I have never seen why we Threns
should war with the Kerts,” Dron added,
"nor can I see why we should war with
the Rhels. Our three races are descended
one from another, so why should we not
live at peace with one another? Grund
is gone and we Threns wish peace as you
do; so why can we not agree to bury all
enmity and live as friends on our three
worlds?”

"We can!” Jurn exclaimed. "Dron, I
have respected you even when you warred
against us — we Kerts have no enmity for
you.”

"None at all,” Hollak agreed, "nor have
we ever ourselves sought warfare with the
Threns. Our agreement for lasting peace
you have, then, but what of the Rhels?”

Mnann spoke. "We Rhels have never
fought but to protect ourselves; so you
have our agreement also. And more,
whatever of scientific knowledge we have
greater than your own shall be shared
with Threns and Kerts. We are, after all,
their parent-race.”

"Then our three worlds will live in
friendly peace, as I have dreamed!” Jurn
cried. "And I think that we owe that to
these three, these men from another star!”

"Not to us!” exclaimed March and
Newell, but Turn nodded.

"Yes, to you, for our races had warred
in this system for ages before you came.
But you came, and -we now see Grund
dead and his plans of conquest shattered,
we see Rhels and Threns and Kerts
friends at last. We see a system that was

torn with war and battle when you
reached it become now a system whose
peace shall be unbroken.”

"And you’re grateful to us for that?”
Connor exclaimed.

"Of course we are!” Jurn answered.
"So grateful that your names will live in
this system while any one lives in it.”
"Can you tie that?” exclaimed Connor
to March and Newell. "We started out
from our own solar system because it was
too dull and peaceful, and here we’ve
been making this system of Alpha Cen-
tauri’s, that was full of battle, murder and
sudden death — we’ve been making it into
a dull and peaceful one like our own!
And the crowning blow is that they’re
grateful to us for it!”

6

M arch and Connor and Newell had
two leave-takings in the next days.
The first was on the Thren world, a few
days after the new peace agreement of the
Rhels, Threns and Kerts. That agree-
ment had been sealed at a formal council
at which Dron, the new ruler of the
Threns, had pledged his people’s adher-
ence to it, Jurn and Hollak ratified it for
the Kerts and Mnann for the Rhels.

With the council over, the representa-
tives of the three races were ready to part,
Mnann and Xydd with the other Rhels
to the innermost planet, Jurn and Hollak
with their Kerts to the outermost world.
Each of the three races had desired March
and his companions to remain as their
guests, but the three had explained their
desire to continue their star-cruising voy-
age, and so had parted from Dron and
Mnann and Xydd, to accompany Jurn and
Hollak.

It was from Jurn and Hollak that their
second leave-taking was, a few days later.
Standing beneath the blaze of Alpha Cen-

THE STAR-ROAMERS

483

tauri’s suns on the outermost planet, be-
side their cruiser’s open door, they shook
the hands of the Kert rulers.

"We’d sure stick around here at Alpha
Centauri if we weren’t so anxious to find
out what it’s like at Sirius,” Connor ex-
plained.

"And at the stars beyond Sirius,”
March smiled.

"I understand,” Jurn said, "nor will
we try to detain you. But if you ever
come back this way ”

"Remember that at this star at least you
have only friends,” Hollak finished for
him.

"We’ll remember,” Connor assured
him. "So long, Jurn — Hollak ”

In moments their cruiser was climbing
up out of the planet’s atmosphere into
free space. High it climbed until Alpha
Centauri’s suns lay down to their right, its
three worlds but shining specks. In black
space around them blazed the hosts of
countless stars.

One blazed brightest among them,
green and brilliant, and toward it March
pointed the cruiser’s prow. Newell and

Connor gazed with him toward the great
green star as the cruiser leapt forward
with mounting speed toward it.

"That’s our next stop — Sirius!” March
told them.

"Sirius — and what’ll it be like there, I
wonder?” speculated Newell.

"Whatever it’s like, it can’t be much
more exciting than back at Alpha Cen-
tauri,” Connor said. "Our first stop —
and it came near being my last.”

"Yes, I was hopeful for a time that
Rod and I were going to shake you there
and make the trip a success after all,”
Newell said. "But I might have known
we couldn’t lose you.”

"Is that so?” Connor demanded. "You
lazy, long-legged liability, if any one’s a
drawback on this trip it’s you! If we
don’t get rid of you at some star soon, we
might as well give up and go home, you

cross- jointed, cock-eyed ” Hfe broke

off to ask, "What were you saying, Rod?”
"I was just saying,” said March, "that
after all I’m glad to be out here again in
space, where everything’s calm and peace-
ful!”

A fantastic tale of an animate, sentient sheet of ice, and the wild
adventure of Quanga the hunter, who sought to dig
royal rubies from that glacial tomb

O UANGA the huntsman, with
Hoom Feethos and EiburTsanth,
two of the most enterprising
jewelers of Iqqua, had crossed the bor-
ders of a region into which men went
but seldom — and wherefrom they re-
turned even mire rarely. Travelling
north from Iqqua, they had passed into
desolate Mhu Thulan, where the great
glacier of Polarion had rolled like a
frozen sea upon wealthy and far-famed
484

cities, covering the broad isthmus from
shore to shore beneath fathoms of per-
petual ice.

The shell-shaped domes of Cerngoth, it
was fabled, could still be seen deep down
in the glaciation; and the high, keen
spires of Oggon-Zhai were embedded
therein, together with fern-palm and
mammoth and the square black temples
of the god Tsathoggua. All this had oc-
curred many centuries ago; and still the

THE ICE-DEMON

485

ice, a ' mighty, glittering rampart, was
moving south upon deserted lands.

Now, in the path of the embattled
glacier, Quanga led his companions on a
bold quest. Their object was nothing
less than the retrieval of the rubies of
King Haalor, who, with the wizard Om-
mum-Vog and many full - caparisoned
soldiers, had gone out five decades before
to make war upon the polar ice. From
this fantastic expedition, neither Haalor
nor Ommum-Vog had come back; and
the sorry, ragged remnant of their men-
at-arms, returning to Iqqua, after two
moons, had told a dire tale.

The army, they said, had made its en-
campment on a sort of knoll, carefully
chosen by Ommum-Vog, in full sight of
the vanward ice. Then the mighty sor-
cerer, standing with Haalor amid a ring
of braziers that fumed incessantly with
golden smoke, and reciting runes that
were older than the world, had conjured
up a fiery orb, vaster and redder than the
southward-circling sun of heaven. And
the orb, with blazing beams that smote
from the zenith, torrid and effulgent, had
caused the sun to seem no more than a
daylight moon, and the soldiers had al-
most swooned from its heat in their heavy
panoply. But beneath its beams the verges
of the glacier melted and ran in swift
rills and rivers, so that Haalor for a time
was hopeful of reconquering the realm
ofMhuThulan over which his forefathers
had ruled in bygone ages.

The rushing waters had deepened,
flowing past the knoll on which the army
waited. Then, as if by a hostile magic,
the rivers began to give forth a pale and
stifling mist, that blinded the conjured
sun of Ommum-Vog, so that its sultry
beams grew faint and chill and had
power no longer on the ice.

Vainly the wizard had put forth other
spells, trying to dissipate the deep and
gelid fog. But the vapor drew down.

evil and clammy, coiling and wreathing
like knots of phantom serpents, and fill-
ing men’s marrows as if with the cold
of death. It covered all the camp, a tan-
gible thing, ever colder and thicker,
numbing the limbs of those who groped
blindly and could not see the faces of
their fellows at arm’s-length. A few of
the common soldiers, somehow, reached
its outer confines and crept fearfully
away beneath the wan sun, seeing no
longer in the skies the wizard globe that
had been called up by Ommum-Vog.
And looking back presently, as they fled
in strange terror, they beheld, instead of
the low-lying mist they had thought to
see, a newly frozen sheet of ice that cov-
ered the mound on which the king and
the sorcerer had made their encampment.
The ice rose higher above the ground
than a tall man’s head; and dimly, in its
glittering depth, the fleeing soldiers saw
the imprisoned forms of their leaders
and companions.

Deeming that this thing was no natural
occurrence, but a sorcery that had been
exerted by the great glacier, and that the
glacier itself was a live, malignant entity
with powers of unknown bale, they did
not slacken their flight. And the ice had
suffered them to depart in peace, as if to
give warning of the fate of those who
dared to assail it.

Some there were who believed the tale,
and some who doubted. But the kings
that ruled in Iqqua after Haalor went not
forth to do battle with the ice; and no
wizard rose to make war upon it with
conjured suns. Men fled before the ever-
advancing glaciations; and strange leg-
ends were told of how people had been
overtaken or cut off in lonely valleys by
sudden, diabolic shiftings of the ice, as
if it had stretched out a living hand. And
legends there were, of awful crevasses
that yawned abruptly and closed like
monstrous mouths upon them that dared

486

WEIRD TALES

the frozen waste; of winds like the
breath of boreal demons, that .blasted
men’s flesh with instant, utter cold and
turned them into statues hard as granite.
In time the whole region, for many miles
before the glacier, was generally shunned;
and only the hardiest hunters would fol-
low their quarry into that winter-blighted
land.

N ow it happened that the fearless
huntsman Iluac, the elder brother
of Quanga, had gone into Mhu Thulan,
and had pursued an enormous black fox
that led hirn afar on the mighty fields of
the ice-sheet. For many leagues he trailed
it, coming never within bowshot of the
beast; and at length he came to a great
mound on the plain, that seemed to mark
the position of a buried hill. And Iluac
thought that the fox entered a cavern in
the mound; so, with lifted bow and a
poised arrow at the string, he went after
it into the cavern.

The place was like a chamber of boreal
kings or gods. All about him, in a dim
green light, were huge, glimmering pil-
lars; and giant icicles hung from the roof
in the form of stalactites. The floor sloped
downward; and Iluac came to the cave’s
end without finding any trace of the fox.
But in the transparent depth of the fur-
ther wall, at the bottom, he saw the
standing shapes of many men, deep-frozen
and sealed up as in a tomb, with unde-
caving bodies and fair, unshrunken fea-
tures. The men were armed with tall
spears, and most of them wore the pan-
oply of soldiers. But among them, in the
van, there stood a haughty figure attired
in the sea-blue robes of a king; and be-
side him was a bowed ancient who wore
the night-black garb of a sorcerer. The
robes of the regal figure were heavily
sewn with gems that burned like colored
stars through the ice; and great rubies
red as gouts of newly congealing blood

were arranged in the lines of a triangle
on the bosom, forming the royal sign of
the kings of Iqqua. So Iluac knew, by
these tokens, that he had found the tomb
of Haalor and Ommum-Vog and the
soldiers with whom they had gone up
against the ice in former days.

Overawed by the strangeness of it all,
and remembering now the old legends,
Iluac lost his courage for the first time,
and quitted the chamber without delay.
Nowhere could he find the black fox;
and abandoning the chase, he returned
southward, reaching the lands below the
glacier without mishap. But he swore
later that the ice had changed in a weird
manner while he was following the fox,
so that he was unsure of his direction for
a while after leaving the cavern. There
were steep ridges and hummocks where
none had been before, making his re-
turn a toilsome journey; and the glacia-
tion seemed to extend itself for many
miles beyond its former limits. And be-
cause of these things, which he could not
• explain or understand, a curious eery fear
was born in the heart of Iluac.

Never again did he go back, upon the
glacier; but he told his brother Quanga
of that which he had found, and described
the location of the cavern-chamber in
which King Haalor and Ommum-Vog
and their men-at-arms were entombed.
And soon after this, Iluac was killed by
a white bear on which he had used all
his arrows in vain.

O uanga was no less brave than Iluac;

and he did not fear the glacier,
since he had been upon it many times
and had noticed nothing untoward. His
was a heart that lusted after gain, and
often he thought of the rubies of Haalor,
locked with the king in eternal ice; and
it seemed to him that a bold man might
recover the rubies.

So, one summer, while trading in

THE ICE-DEMON

487

Iqquawith his furs, he went to the jewel-
ers Eibur Tsanth and Hoom Feethos, tak-
ing with him a few garnets that he had
found in a northern valley. While the
jewelers were appraising the garnets, he
spoke idly of the rubies of Haalor, and
inquired craftily as to their value. Then,
hearing the great worth of the gems, and
noting the greedy interest that was shown
by Hoom Feethos and Eibur Tsanth, he
told them the tale he had heard from his
brother Iluac, and offered, if they would
promise him half the value of the rubies,
to guide them to the hidden cave.

The jewelers agreed to this proposi-
tion, in spite of the hardships of the pro-
posed journey, and the difficulty they
might afterward encounter in disposing
surreptitiously of gems that belonged tc
the royal family of Iqqua and would be
claimed by the present king, Ralour, if
their discovery were learned. The fabu-
lous worth of the rubies had fired their
avarice. Quanga, on his part, desired
the complicity and connivance of the
dealers, knowing that it would be hard
for him to sell the jewels otherwise. He
did not trust Hoom Feethos and Eibur
Tsanth, and it was for this reason that
he required them to go with him to the
cavern and pay over to him the agreed
sum of money as soon as they were in
possession of the treasure. ,

The strange trio had set forth in mid-
summer. Now, after two weeks of jour-
neying through a wild, sub-arctic region,
they were approaching the confines of
the eternal ice. They travelled on foot,
and their supplies were carried by three
horses little larger than musk-oxen.
Quanga, an unerring marksman, hunted
for their daily food the hares and water-
fowl of the country.

Behind them, in a cloudless turquoise
heaven, there burned the low sun that
was said to have described a loftier eclip-
tic in former ages. Drifts of unmelting

snow were heaped in the shadows of the
higher hills; and in steep valleys they
came upon the vanward glaciers of the
ice-sheet. The trees and shrubs were al-
ready sparse and stunted, in a land where
rich forests had flourished in olden time
beneath a milder climate. But poppies
flamed in the meadows and along the
slopes, spreading their frail beauty like a
scarlet rug before the feet of perennial
winter; and the quiet pools and stagnant-
flowing streams were lined with white-
water-lilies.

A little to the east, they saw the fum-
ing of volcanic peaks that still resisted
the inroads of the glaciers. On the west
were high, gaunt mountains whose sheer
cliffs and pinnacles were topped with
snow, and around whose nether slopes the
ice had climbed like an inundating sea.
Before them was the looming, crenelated
wall of the realm-wide glaciation, mov-
ing equally on plain and hill, uprooting
the trees, and pressing the soil forward in
vast folds and ridges. Its progress had
been stayed a little by the northern sum-
mer. Quanga and the jewelers, as they
went on, came to turbid rills, made by a
temporary melting, that issued from be-
neath the glittering blue-green ramparts.

T hey left their pack-horses in a grassy
valley, tethered by long cords of elk-
thong to the dwarfish willows. Then, car-
rying such provisions and other equipment
as they might require for a two days’
journey, they climbed the ice-slope at a
point selected by Quanga as being most
readily accessible, and started in the di-
rection of the cave that had been found
by Iluac. Quanga took his bearings from
the position of the volcanic mountains,
and also from two isolated peaks that
rose on the sheeted plain to the north like
the breasts of a giantess beneath her shin-
ing armor.

The three were well equipped for all

488

WEIRD TALES

the exigencies of their search. Quanga
carried a curious pick-ax of finely tem-
pered bronze, to be used in disentombing
the body of King Haalor; and he was
armed with a short, leaf-shaped sword,
in addition to his bow and quiver of
arrows. His garments were made from
the fur of a giant bear, brown-black in
color.

Hoorn Feethos and Eibur Tsanth, in
raiment heavily quilted with eider-down
against the cold, followed him complain-
ingly but with avaricious eagerness. They
had not enjoyed the long marches through
a desolate, Weakening land, nor the rough
fare and exposure to the northern ele-
ments. Moreover, they had taken a dislike
to Quanga, whom they considered rude
and overbearing. Their grievances were
aggravated by the fact that he was now
compelling them to carry most of the sup-
plies in addition to the two heavy bags of
gold which they were to exchange later
for the gems. Nothing less valuable than
the rubies of Haalor would have induced
them to come so far, or to set foot on the
formidable wastes of the ice-sheet.

The scene before them was like some
frozen world of the outer void. Vast,
unbroken, save for a few scattered mounds
and ridges, the plain extended to the
white horizon and its armored peaks.
Nothing seemed to live or move on the
awful, glistening vistas, whose nearer
levels were swept clean of snow. The
sun appeared to grow pale and chill, and
to recede behind the adventurers; and a
wind blew upon them from the ice, like
a breath from abysses beyond the pole.

Apart from the boreal desolation and
drearness, however, there was nothing to
dismay Quanga or his companions. None
of them was superstitious, and they
deemed that the old tales were idle
myths, were no more than fear-born de-
lusions. Quanga smiled commiseratively
at the thought of his brother Iluac, who

had been so oddly frightened and had
fancied such extraordinary things after
the finding of Haalor. It was a singular
weakness in Iluac, the rash and almost
foolhardy hunter who had feared neither
man ncr beast. As to the trapping of
Haalor and Ommum-Vog and their army
in the glacier, it was plain that they had
allowed themselves to be overtaken by the
winter storms; and the few survivors,
mentally unhinged by their hardships,
had told a wild story. Ice — even though
it had conquered half of a continent —
was merely ice, and its workings con-
formed invariably to certain natural laws.
Iluac had said that the ice-sheet was a
great demon, cruel, greedy, and loth to
give up that which it had taken. But
such beliefs were crude and primitive
superstitions, not to be entertained by
enlightened minds of the Pleistocene age.

They had climbed the rampart at an
early hour of morning. Quanga assured
the jewelers that they would reach the
cavern by noon at the latest, even if there
should be a certain amount of difficulty
and delay in locating it.

The plain before them was remarkably
free of crevasses, and there was little to
obstruct their advance. Steering their
way with the two breast-shaped moun-
tains for landmarks before them, they
came after three hours to a hill-like ele-
vation that corresponded to the mound
of Iluac’s story. With little trouble, they
found the opening of the deep chamber.

I t seemed that the place had changed
little if at all since the visit of Iluac,
for the interior, with its columns and
pendant icicles, conformed closely to his
description. The entrance was like a
fanged maw. Within, the floor sloped
downward at a slippery angle for more
than a hundred feet. The chamber swam
with a cold and glaucous translucency
that filtered through the dome-like roof 4

THE ICE-DEMON

489

At the lower end, in the striated wall,
Quanga and the jewelers saw the embed-
ded shapes of a number of men, among
which they distinguished easily the tall,
blue-clad corpse of King Haalor and the
dark, bowed mummy of Ommum-Vog.
Behind these, the shapes of others, lift-
ing their serried spears eternally, and re-
ceding downward in stiff ranks through
unfathomable depths, were faintly dis-
cernible.

Haalor stood regal and erect, with
wide-open eyes that stared haughtily as in
life. Upon his bosom the triangle of hot
and blood-bright rubies smoldered nn-
quenchably in the glacial gloom; and the
colder eyes of topazes, of beryls, of dia-
monds, of chrysolites, gleamed and twin-
kled from his azure raiment. It seemed
that the fabulous gems were separated
by no more than a foot or two of ice from
the greedy fingers of the hunter and his
companions.

Without speaking, they stared raptly at
the far-sought treasure. Apart from the
great rubies, the jewelers were also es-
timating the value of the other gems
worn by Haalor. These alone, they
thought complacently, would have made
it worth while to endure the fatigue of
the journey and the insolence of Quanga.

The hunter, on his part, was wishing
that he had driven an even steeper bar-
gain. The two bags of gold, however,
would make him a wealthy man. He
could drink to his full content the costly
wines, redder than the rubies, that came
from far Uzuldaroum in the south. The
tawny, slant-eyed girls of Iqqua would
dance at his bidding: and he could gam-
ble for high stakes.

All three were unmindful of the eeri-
ness of their situation, alone in that boreal
solitude with the frozen dead; and they
were oblivious likewise to the ghoulish
nature of the robbery they were about to
commit. Without waiting to be urged

by his companions, Quanga raised the
keen and highly tempered pick of bronze,
and began to assaii the translucent wall
with mighty blows.

The ice rang shrilly beneath the pick,
and dropped away in crystal splinters and
diamond lumps. In a few minutes, he
had made a large cavity; and only a thin
shell, cracked and shattering, remained
before the body of Haalor. This shell
Quanga proceeded to pry off with great
care; and soon the triangle of monstrous
rubies, more or less encrusted still with
clinging ice, lay bare to his fingers. While
the proud, bleak eyes of Haalor stared
immovably upon him from behind their
glassy mask, the hunter dropped the pick,
and drawing his sharp, leaf -shaped sword
from its scabbard, he began to sever the
fine silver wires by which the rubies were
attached cunningly to the king’s raiment.
In his haste he ripped away portions of
the sea-blue fabric, baring the frozen and
dead-white flesh beneath. One by one,
as he removed the rubies, he gave them
to Hoorn Feethos, standing close behind
him; and the dealer, bright-eyed with
avarice, drooling a little with ecstasy,
stored them carefully in a huge pouch of
mottled lizardskin that he had brought
along for the purpose.

The last ruby had been secured, and
Quanga was about to turn his attention
to the lesser jewels that adorned the king’s
garments in curious patterns and signs of
astrological or hieratic significance. Then,
amid their preoccupation, he and Hoom
Feethos were startled by a loud and splin-
tering crash that ended with myriad
tinklings as of broken glass. Turning,
they saw that a huge icicle had fallen
from the cavern-dome; and its point, as
if aimed unerringly, had cloven the skull
of Eibur Tsanth, who lay amid the debris
of shattered ice with the sharp end of
the fragment deeply embedded in his

490

WEIRD TALES

oozing brain. He had died, instantly,
without knowledge of his doom.

The accident, it seemed, was a perfectly
natural one, such as might occur in sum-
mer from a slight melting of the im-
mense pendant; but, amid their consterna-
tion, Quanga and Hoom Feethos were
compelled to take note of certain circum-
stances that were far from normal or
explicable.

During the removal of the rubies, on
which their attention had been centered
so exclusively, the chamber had narrowed
to half of its former width, and had also
closed down from above, till the hanging
icicles were almost upon them, like the
champing teeth of some tremendous
mouth. The place had darkened, and the
light was such as might filter into arctic
seas beneath heavy floes. The incline of
the cave had grown steeper, as if it were
pitching into bottomless depths. Far up
— incredibly far- — the two men beheld
the tiny entrance, which seemed no big-
ger than the mouth of a fox’s hole.

I

F or an instant, they were stupefied.

The changes of the cavern could
admit of no natural explanation; and the
Hyperboreans felt the clammy surge of
all the superstitious terrors that they had
formerly disclaimed. No longer could
they deny the conscious, animate malevo-
lence, the diabolic powers of bale im-
puted to the ice in old legends.

Realizing their peril, and spurred by
a wild panic, they started to climb the in-
cline. Hoom Feethos retained the bulg-
ing pouch of rubies, as well as the heavy
bag of gold coins that hung from his
girdle; and Quanga had enough presence
of mind to keep his sword and pick-ax.
In their terror-driven haste, however,
both forgot the second bag of gold,
which lay beside Eibur Tsanth, under the
debris of the shattered pendant.

The supernatural narrowing of the

cave, the dreadful and sinister closing-
down of its roof, had apparently ceased.
At any rate, the Hyperboreans could de-
tect no visible continuation of the process
as they climbed frantically and preca-
riously toward the opening. They were
forced to stoop in many places to avoid
the mighty fangs that threatened to de-
scend upon them; and even with the
rough tigerskin buskins that they wore,
it was hard to keep their footing on the
terrible • slope. Sometimes they pulled
themselves up by means of the slippery,
pillar-like formations; and often Quanga,
who led the way, was compelled to hew
hasty steps in the incline with his pick.

Hoom Feethos was too terrified for
even the most rudimentary reflection.
But Quanga, as he climbed, was consider-
ing the monstrous alterations of the cave,
which he could not aline with his wide
and various experience of the phenomena
of nature. He tried to convince himself
that he had made a singular error in es-
timating the chamber’s dimensions and
the inclination of its floor. The effort
was useless: he still found himself con-
fronted by a thing that outraged his rea-
son; a thing that distorted the known
face of the world with unearthly, hideous
madness, and mingled a malign chaos
with its ordered workings.

After an ascent that was frightfully
prolonged, like the effort to escape from
some delirious, tedious nightmare pre-
dicament, they neared the cavern-mouth.
There was barely room now for a man to
creep on his belly beneath the sharp and
ponderous teeth. Quanga, feeling that
the fangs might close upon him like those
of some great monster, hurled himself
forward and started to wriggle through
the opening with a most unheroic celerity.
Something held him back, and he thought,
for one moment of stark horror, that his
worst apprehensions were being realized.
Then he found that his bow and quiver

THE ICE-DEMON

491

of arrows, which he had forgotten to re-
move from his shoulders, were caught
against the pendant ice. While Hoom
Feethos gibbered in a frenzy of fear and
impatience, he crawled back and relieved
himself of the impeding weapons, which
he thrust before him together with his
pick in a second and more successful at-
tempt to pass through the strait opening.

Rising to his feet on the open glacier,
he heard a wild cry from Hoom Feethos,
who, trying to follow Quanga, had be-
come tightly wedged in the entrance
through his greater girth. His right hand,
clutching the pouch of rubies, was thrust
forward beyond the threshold of the cave.
He howled incessantly, with half-coherent
protestations that the cruel ice-teeth were
crunching him to death.

In spite of the eery terrors that had
unmanned him, the hunter still retained
enough courage to go back and try to
assist Hoom Feethos. He was about to
assail the huge icicles with his pick, when
he heard an agonizing scream from the
jeweler, followed by a harsh and inde-
scribable grating. There had been no
visible movement of the fangs — and yet
Quanga now saw that they had reached
the cavern-floor! The body of Hoom
Feethos, pierced through and through by
one of the icicles, and ground down by
the blunter teeth, was spurting blood on
the glacier, like the red mist from a wine-
press.

Quanga doubted the very testimony of
his senses. The thing before him was
patently impossible — there was no mark
of cleavage in the mound above the cav-
ern-mouth, to explain the descent of those
awful fangs. Before his very eyes, but
too swiftly for direct cognition, this un-
thinkable enormity had occurred.

Hoom Feethos was beyond all earthly
help, and Quanga, now wholly the slave
of a hideous panic, would hardly have
stayed longer to assist him in any case.

But seeing the pouch that had fallen for-
ward from the dead jeweler’s fingers, the
hunter snatched it up through an impulse
of terror-mingled greed; and then, with
no backward glance, he fled on the gla-
cier, toward the low-circling sun.

F or a few moments, as he ran, Quan-
ga failed to perceive the sinister and
ill-boding alterations, comparable to
those of the cave, which had somehow
occurred in the sheeted plain itself. With
a terrific shock, which became an actual
vertigo, he saw that he was climbing a
long, insanely tilted slope above whose
remote extreme the sun had receded
strangely, and was now small and chill
as if seen from an outer planet. The very
sky was different: though still perfectly
cloudless, it had taken on a curious death-
ly pallor. A brooding sense of inimical
volition, a vast and freezing malignity,
seemed to pervade the air and to settle
upon Quanga like an incubus. But more
terrifying than all else, in its proof of a
conscious and malign derangement of
natural law, was the giddy poleward in-
clination that had been assumed by the
level plateau.

Quanga felt that creation itself had
gone mad, and had left him at the mercy
of demoniacal forces from the godless
outer gulfs. Keeping a perilous foot-
hold, weaving and staggering laboriously
upward, he feared momently that he
would slip and fall and slide bade for
ever into arctic depths unfathomable.
And yet, when he dared to pause at last,
and turned shudderingly to peer down at
the supposed descent, he saw behind him
an acclivity similar in all respects to the
one he was climbing: a mad, oblique
wall of ice, that rose interminably to a
second remote sun.

In the confusion of that strange bou'le-
versement, he seemed to lose the last
remnant of equilibrium; and the glacier

492

WEIRD TALES

reeled and pitched about him like an over-
turning world as he strove to recover the
sense of direction that had never before
deserted him. Everywhere, it appeared,
there were small and wan parhelia that
mocked him above unending glacial
scarps. He resumed his hopeless climb
through a topsy-turvy world of illusion:
whether north, south, east or west, he
could not tell.

A sudden wind swept downward on
the glacier; it shrieked in Quanga’s ears
like the myriad voices of taunting devils;
it moaned and laughed and ululated with
shrill notes as of crackling ice. It seemed
to pluck at Quanga with live malicious
fingers, to suck the breath for which he
fought agonizingly. In spite of his heavy
raiment, and the speed of his toilsome
ascent, he felt its bitter, mordant teeth,
searching and biting even to the marrow.

Dimly, as he continued to climb up-
ward, he saw that the ice was no longer
smooth, but had risen into pillars and
pyramids around him, or was fretted ob-
scenely into wilder shapes. Immense,
malignant profiles leered in blue-green
crystal; the malformed heads of bestial
devils frowned; and rearing dragons
writhed immovably along the scarp, or
sank frozen into deep crevasses.

Apart from these imaginary forms
that were assumed by the ice itself, Quan-
ga saw, or believed that he saw, human
bodies and faces embedded in the glacier.
Pale hands appeared to reach dimly and
imploringly toward him from the depths;
and he felt upon him the frost-bound
eyes of men who had been lost in former
years; and beheld their sunken limbs,
grown rigid in strange attitudes of tor-
ture.

Quanga was no longer capable of
thought. Deaf, blind, primordial terrors,
older than reason, had filled his mind
with their atavistic darkness. They drove
him on implacably, as a beast is driven,

and would not let him pause or flag on
the mocking, nightmare slope. Reflection
would have told him only that his ulti-
mate escape was impossible; that the ice,
a live and conscious and maleficent thing,
was merely playing a cruel and fantastic
game which it had somehow devised in
its incredible animism. So, perhaps, it
was well that he had lost the power of
reflection.

Beyond hope and without warning, he
came to the end of the glaciation. It
was like the sudden shift of a dream,
which takes the dreamer unaware; and
he stared uncomprehendingly for some
moments at the familiar Hyperborean
valleys below the rampart, to the south,
and the volcanoes that fumed darkly be-
yond the southeastern hills.

His flight from the cavern had con-
sumed almost the whole of the long,
sub-polar afternoon, and the sun was now
swinging close above the horizon. The
parhelia had vanished, and the ice-sheet,
as if by some prodigious legerdemain,
had resumed its normal horizontality. If
he had been able to compare his impres-
sions, Quanga would have realized that
at no time had he surprized the glacier
in the accomplishment of its bewildering
supernatural changes.

D oubtfully, as if it were a mirage
that might fade at any moment, he
surveyed the landscape below the battle-
ments. To all appearances, he bad re-
turned to the very place from which he
and the jewelers had begun their dis-
astrous journey on the ice. Before him
an easy declivity, fretted and runneled,
ran down toward the grassy meadows.
Fearing that it was all deceitful and un-
real — a fair, beguiling trap, a new treach-
ery of the element that he had grown to
regard as a cruel and almighty demon —
Quanga descended the slope with hasty
leaps and bounds. Even when he stood

THE ICE-DEMON

493

ankle-deep in the great dub-mosses^ with
leafy willows and sedgy grasses about
him, he could not quite believe in the
verity of his escape.

The mindless prompting of a panic
fear still drove him on; and a primal in-
stinct, equally mindless, drew him toward
the volcanic peaks. The instinct told
him that he would find refuge from the
bitter boreal cold amid their purlieus; and
there, if anywhere, he would be safe
from the diabolical machinations of the
glacier. Boiling springs were said to flow
perpetually from the nether slopes of
these mountains; great geysers, roaring
and hissing like infernal cauldrons, filled
the higher gullies with scalding cataracts.
The long snows that swept upon Hyper-
borea were turned to mild rains in the
vicinity of the volcanoes; and there a rich
and sultry-colored flora, formerly native
to the whole region, but now exotic,
flourished throughout the seasons.

Quanga could not find the little shaggy
horses that he and his companions had left
tethered to the dwarf willows in the val-
ley-meadow. Perhaps, after all, it was
not the same valley. At any rate, he did
not stay his flight to search for them.
Without delay or lingering, after one
fearful backward look at the menacing
mass of the glaciation, he started off in
a direct line for the smoke-plumed moun-
tains.

The sun sank lower, skirting endlessly
the southwestern horizon, and flooding
the battlemented ice and the rolling land-
scape with a light of pale amethyst.
Quanga, with iron thews inured to pro-
tracted marches, pressed on in his un-
remitting terror, and was overtaken grad-
ually by the long, ethereal-tinted twilight
of northern summer.

Somehow, through all the stages of his
flight, he had retained the pick-ax, as
well as his bow and arrows. Automati-
cally, hours before, he had placed the

heavy pouch of rubies in the bosom of
his raiment for safekeeping. He had for-
gotten them, and he did not even no-
tice the trickle of water from the melting
of crusted ice about the jewels, that
seeped upon his flesh from the lizard-
skin pouch.

Crossing one of the innumerable val-
leys, he stumbled against a protruding
willow-root, and the pick was hurled
from his fingers as he fell. Rising to his
feet, he ran on without stopping to re-
trieve it.

A ruddy glow from the volcanoes was
now visible on the darkening sky. It
brightened as Quanga went on; and he
felt that he was nearing the far-sought,
inviolable sanctuary. Though still thor-
oughly shaken and demoralized by his
preterhuman ordeals, he began to think
that he might escape from the ice-demon
after all.

Suddenly he became aware of a con-
suming thirst, to which he had been ob-
livious heretofore. Daring to pause in
one of the shallow valleys, he drank from
a blossom-bordered stream. Then, be-
neath the crushing load of an uncon-
sciously accumulated fatigue, he flung
himself down to rest for a little while
among the blood-red poppies that were
purple with twilight.

S leep fell like a soft and overwhelm-
ing snow upon his eyelids, but was
soon broken by evil dreams in which he
still fled vainly from the mocking and
inexorable glacier. He awoke in a cold
horror, sweating and shivering, and
found himself staring at the northern
sky, where a delicate flush was dying
slowly. It seemed to him that a great
shadow, malign and massive and some-
how solid, was moving upon the horizon
and striding over the low hills toward the
valley in which he lay. It came with in-
expressible speed, and the last light ap-

494

WEIRD TALES

peared to fall from the heavens, chill as
a reflection caught in ice.

He started to his feet with the stiff-
ness of prolonged exhaustion in all his
body, and the nightmare stupefaction of
slumber still mingling with his half-
awakened fears. In this state, with a mad,
momentary defiance, he unslung his bow
and discharged arrow after arrow, empty-
ing his quiver at the huge and bleak and
formless shadow that seemed to impend
before him on the sky. Having done
this, he resumed his headlong flight.

Even as he ran, he shivered uncontrol-
lably with the sudden and intense cold
that had filled the valley. Vaguely, with
an access of fear, he felt that there was
something unwholesome and unnatural
about the cold — something that did not
belong to the place or the season. The
glowing volcanoes were quite near, and
soon he would reach their outlying hills.
The air about him should be temperate,
even if not actually warm.

All at once, the air darkened before
him, with a sourceless, blue-green glim-
mering in its depths. For a moment, he
saw the featureless Shadow that rose gi-
gantically upon his path and obscured
the very stars and the glare of the vol-
canoes. Then, with the swirling, of a
tempest-driven vapor, it closed about him,
gelid and relentless. It was like phan-
tom ice — a thing that blinded his eyes
and stifled his breath, as if he were buried

in some glacial tomb. It was cold with a
transarctic rigor, such as he had never
known, that ached unbearably in all his
flesh, and was followed by a swiftly
spreading numbness.

Dimly he heard a sound as of clashing
icicles, a grinding as of heavy floes, in
the blue-green gloom that tightened and
thickened around him. It was as if the
soul of the glacier, malign and implaca-
ble, had overtaken him in his flight. At
times he struggled numbly, in half-
drowsy terror. With some obscure im-
pulse, as if to propitiate a vengeful deity,
he took the pouch of rubies from his
bosom with prolonged and painful effort,
and tried to hurl it away. The thongs
that tied the pouch were loosened by its
fall, and Quanga heard faintly, as if
from a great distance, the tinkle of the
rubies as they rolled and scattered on
some hard surface. Then oblivion deep-
ened about him, and he fell forward
stiffly, without knowing that he had
fallen.

Morning found him beside the little
stream, stark-frozen, and lying on his
face in a circle of poppies that had been
blackened as if by the footprint of some
gigantic demon of frost. A near-by pool,
formed by the leisurely rill, was covered
with thin ice; and on the ice, like gouts
of frozen blood, there lay the scattered
rubies of Haalor. In its own time, the
great glacier, moving slowly and irresist-
ibly southward, would reclaim them.

By CARL JACOBI

utterly strange story of three mad
volumes and a weird woman who sat
by a fountain in the house of the

"Oh, the foulness of it! She had been feasting on mv
blood!’’

I T WAS a dreary, forlorn establishment
■way down on Harbor Street. An old
sign announced the legend: "Giovan-
ni Larla — Antiques,” and a dingy win-
dow revealed a display half masked in
dust.

Even as I crossed the. threshold that
cheerless September afternoon, driven
from the sidewalk by a gust of rain and
perhaps a fascination for all antiques, the
gloominess fell upon me like a material
pall. Inside was half darkness, piled
boxes and a monstrous tapestry, frayed

with the warp showing in worn places.
An Italian Renaissance wine cabinet
shrank despondently in its corner and
seemed to frown at me as I passed.

"Good afternoon, Signor. There is
something you wish to buy? A picture, a
ring, a vase perhaps?”

I peered at the squat, pudgy bulk of the
Italian proprietor there in the shadows
and hesitated.

"Just looking around,” I said, turning
my eyes to the jumble about me. "Noth-
ing in particular. ...”

495

496

WEIRD TALES

The man’s oily face moved in smile as
though he had heard the remark a thou-
sand times before. He sighed, stood
there in thought a moment, the rain drum-
ming and swishing against the outer pane.
Then very deliberately he stepped to the
shelves and glanced up and down them
considering. I moved to his side, letting
my eyes sweep across the stacked array of
ancient oddities. At length he drew forth
an object which I perceived to be a painted
chalice.

"An authentic Sixteenth Century Tan-
dart,” he murmured. "A work of art,

Signor.”

I shook my head. "No pottery,” I said.
“Books perhaps, but no pottery.”

He frowned slowly. "I have books
too,” he replied, "rare books which no-
body sells but me, Giovanni Larla. But
you must look at my other treasures too.”

There was, I found, no hurrying the
man. A quarter of an hour passed, dur-
ing which I had to see a Glycon cameo
brooch, a carved chair of some inde-
terminate style and period, and a muddle
of yellowed statuettes, small oils and one
or two dreary Portland vases. Several
times I glanced at my watch impatiently,
wondering how I might break away from
this Italian and his gloomy shop. Already
the fascination of its dust and shadows
had begun to wear off, and I was anxious
to reach the street.

But when he had conducted me well
toward the rear of the shop, something
caught my fancy. I drew then from the
shelf the first book of horror. If I had
but known the terrible events that were to
follow, if I could only have had a fore-
sight into the future that September day,
I swear I would have avoided the book
like a leprous thing, would have shunned
that wretched antique store and the very
street it stood on like places accursed. A
thousand times I have wished my eyes had

never rested on that cover in black. What
u'rithings of the soul, what terrors, what
unrest, what madness would have been
spared me!

But never dreaming the hideous secret
of its pages I fondled it casually and rer
marked :

"An unusual book. What is it?”

Larla glanced up and scowled.

"That is not for sale,” he said quietly.
"I don’t know how it got on these shelves.
It was my poor brother's.”

T he volume in my hand was indeed
unusual in appearance. Measuring
but four inches across and five inches in
length and bound in black velvet with
each outside corner protected with a tri-
angle of ivory, it was the most beautiful
piece of book-binding I had ever seen.
In the center of the cover was mounted a
tiny piece of ivory intricately cut in the
shape of a skull. But it was the title of
the book that excited my interest. Em-
broidered in gold braid, the title read:
"Five Unicorns and a Pearl.”

I looked at Larla. "How much?” I
asked and reached for my wallet.

He shook his head. "No, it is not for
sale. It is ... it is the last work of my
brother. He wrote it just before he died
in the institution.”

"The institution?” I queried.

Larla made no reply but stood staring
at the book, his mind obviously drifting
away in deep thought. A moment of
silence dragged by. There was a strange
gleam in his eyes when finally he spoke.
And I thought I saw his fingers tremble
slightly.

"My brother, Alessandro, was a fine
man before he wrote that book,” he said
slowly. "He wrote beautifully, Signor,
and he was strong and healthy. For
hours I could sit while he read to me his
poems. He was a dreamer, Alessandro;

W. T.— 6

REVELATIONS IN BLACK

497

he loved everything beautiful, and the two
of us were very happy.

"All . . . until that terrible night.
Then he . . . but no . . . a year has
passed now. It is best to forget.” He
passed his hand before his eyes and drew
in his breath sharply.

"What happened?” I asked sympathet-
ically, his words arousing my curiosity.

"Happened, Signor? I do not really
know. It was all so confusing. He be-
came suddenly ill, ill without reason. The
flush of sunny Italy, which was always on
his cheek, faded, and he grew white and
drawn. His strength left him day by day.
Doctors prescribed, gave medicines, but
nothing helped. He grew steadily weaker
until . . . until that night.”

I looked at him curiously, impressed by
his perturbation.

"And then ?” I urged.

Hands opening and closing, Larla
seemed to sway unsteadily; his liquid eyes
opened wide to the brows, and his voice
was strained and tense as he continued:
"And then . . . oh, if I could but for-
get! It was horrible. Poor Alessandro
came home screaming, sobbing, tearing
his hair. He was ... he was stark, rav-
ing mad!

"They took him to the institution for
the insane and said he needed a complete
rest, that he had suffered from some ter-
rific mental shock. He . . . died three
weeks later with the crucifix on his lips.”
For a moment I stood there in silence,
staring out at the falling rain. Then I
said:

"He wrote this book while confined to
the institution?”

Larla nodded absently.

"Three books,” he replied. "Two
others exactly like the one you have in
your hand. The bindings he made, of
course, when he was quite well. It was
his original intention, I believe, to pen in
W. T.— 7

them by hand the verses of Marini. He
was very clever at such work. But the
wanderings of his mind which filled the
pages now, I have never read. Nor do I
intend to. I want to keep with me the
memory of him when he was happy. This
book has come on these shelves by mis-
take. I shall put it with his other pos-
sessions.”

My desire to read the few pages bound
in velvet increased a thousandfold when I
found they were unobtainable. I have
always had an interest in abnormal psy-
chology and have gone through a number
of bocks on the subject. Here was the
work of a man confined in the asylum for
the insane. Here was the unexpurgated
writing of an educated brain gone mad.
And unless my intuition failed me, here
was a suggestion of some deep mystery.
My mind was made up. I must have it.

I turned to Larla and chose my words
carefully.

"I can well appreciate your wish to
keep the book,” I said, "and since you re-
fuse to sell, may I ask if you would con-
sider lending it to me for just one night?
If I promised to return it in the morn-
ing? . . .”

The Italian hesitated. He toyed unde-
cidedly with a heavy gold watch chain.

"No. I am sorry. . . .”

"Ten dollars and back tomorrow un-
harmed.”

Larla studied his shoe.

"Very well, Signor, I will trust you.
But please, I ask you, please be sure and
return it.”

T hat night in the quiet of my apart-
ment I opened the book. Immediate-
ly my attention was drawn to three lines
scrawled in a feminine hand across the in-
side of the front cover, lines written in a
faded red solution that looked more like
blood than ink. They read:

498

WEIRD TALES

"Revelations meant to destroy but only
binding without the stake. Read, fool,
and enter my field, for we are chained to
the spot. Oh wo unto Larla.”

I mused over these undecipherable sen-
tences for some time without solving their
meaning. At last, shrugging my shoul-
ders, I turned to the first page and began
the last work of Alessandro Larla, the
strangest story I had ever in my years of
browsing through old books, come upon.

"On the evening of the fifteenth of
October I turned my steps into the cold
and walked until I was tired. The roar of
the present was in the distance when I
came to twenty-six bluejays silently con-
templating the ruins. Passing in the
midst of them l wandered by the skeleton
trees and seated myself where I could
watch the leering fish. A child wor-
shipped. Glass threw the moon at me.
Grass sang a litany at my feet. And the
pointed shadow moved slowly to the left.

"I walked along the silver gravel until
I came to five unicorns galloping beside
water of the past. Here I found a pearl,
a magnificent pearl, a pearl beautiful but
black. Like a flower it carried a rich per-
fume, and once l thought the odor was
but a mask, but why should such a perfect
creation need a mask?

"I sat between the leering fish and the
five galloping unicorns, and I fell madly
in love with the pearl. The past lost itself

in drabness and ”

I laid the book down and sat watching
the smoke-curls from my pipe eddy ceil-
ingward. There was much more, but I
could make no sense to any of it. All was
in that strange style and completely in-
comprehensible. And yet it seemed the
story was more than the mere wanderings
of a madman. Behind it all seemed to lie
a narrative cloaked in symbolism.

Something about the few sentences —
just what I can not say — had cast an im-

mediate spell of depression over me. The
vague lines weighed upon my mind, hung
before my eyes like a design, and I felt
myself slowly seized by a deep feeling of
uneasiness.

The air of the room grew heavy and
close. The open casement and the out-of-
doors seemed to beckon to me. I walked
to the window, thrust the curtain aside,
stood there, smoking furiously. Let me
say that regular habits have long been a
part of my make-up. I am not addicted
to nocturnal strolls or late meanderings
before seeking my bed; yet now, curious-
ly enough, with the pages of the book still
in my mind I suddenly experienced an in-
definable urge to leave my apartment and
walk the darkened streets.

I paced the room nervously, irritated
that the sensation did not pass. The clock
on the mantel pushed its ticks slowly
through the quiet. And at length with a
shrug I threw my pipe to the table,
reached for my hat and coat and made
for the door.

Ridiculous as it may sound, upon reach-
ing the street I found that urge had in-
creased to a distinct attraction. I felt that
under no circumstances must I turn any
direction but northward, and although
this way led into a district quite unknown
to me, I was in a moment pacing forward,
choosing streets deliberately and heading
without knowing why toward the out-
skirts of the city. It was a brilliant moon-
light night in September. Summer had
passed and already there was the smell of
frosted vegetation in the air. The great
chimes in Capitol tower were sounding
midnight, and the buildings and shops
and later the private houses were dark
and silent as I passed.

Try as I would to erase from my mem-
ory the queer book which I had just read,
the mystery of its pages hammered at me,
arousing my curiosity, dampening my

REVELATIONS IN BLACK

499

spirits. "Five Unicorns and a Pearl!”
What did it all mean?

More and more I realized as I went on
that a power other than my own will was
leading my steps. It was absurd, and I
tried to resist, to turn back. Yet once
when I did momentarily come to a halt
that attraction swept upon me as inex-
orably as the desire for a narcotic.

It was far out on Easterly Street that I
came upon a high stone wall flanking the
sidewalk. Over its ornamented top I
could see the shadows of a dark building
set well back in the grounds. A wrought-
iron gate in the wall opened upon a view
of wild desertion and neglect. Swathed
in the light of the moon, an old court-
yard strewn with fountains, stone benches
and statues lay tangled in rank weeds and
undergrowth. The windows of the build-
ing, which evidently had once been a pri-
vate dwelling, were boarded up, all except
those on a little tower or cupola rising to
a point in the front. And here the glass
caught the blue-gray light and refracted it
Into the shadows.

Before that gate my feet stopped like
dead things. The psychic power which
had been leading me had nov/ become a
reality. Directly from the courtyard it
emanated, drawing me toward it with an
intensity that smothered all reluctance.

S trangely enough, the gate was un-
locked; and feeling like a man in a
trance I swung the creaking hinges and
entered, making my way along a grass-
grown path to one of the benches. It
seemed that once inside the court the dis-
tant sounds of the city died away, leaving
a hollow silence broken only by the wind
rustling through the tall dead weeds.
Rearing up before me, the building with
its dark wings, cupola and facade oddly
resembled a colossal hound, crouched and
ready to spring.

There were several fountains, weather-
beaten and ornamented with curious fig-
ures, to which at the time I paid only cas-
ual attention. Farther on, half hidden by
the underbrush, was the life-size statue of
a little Child kneeling in position of
prayer. Erosion on the soft stone had dis-
figured the face, and in the half-light the
carved features presented an expression
strangely grotesque and repelling.

Kow long I sat there in the quiet, I
don’t know. The surroundings under
the moonlight blended harmoniously with
my mood. But more than that I seemed
physically unable to rouse myself and
pass on.

It was with a suddenness that brought
me electrified to ray feet that I became
aware of the real significance of the ob-
jects about me. Held motionless, I stood
there running my eyes wildly from place
to place, refusing to believe. Surely I
must be dreaming. In the name of all
that was unusual this . . . this absolute-
ly couldn’t be. And yet

It was the fountain at my side that had
caught my attention first. Across the top
of the water basin were five stone uni-
corns, all identically carved, each seeming
to follow the other in galloping proces-
sion. Looking farther, prompted now by
a madly rising recollection, I saw that the
cupola, towering high above the house,
eclipsed the rays of the moon and threw
a long pointed shadow across the ground
at my left. The other fountain some dis-
tance away was ornamented with the fig-
ure of a stone fish, a fish whose empty eye-
sockets were leering straight in my direc-
tion. And the climax of it all — the wall!
At intervals of every three feet on the
top of the street expanse were mounted
crude carven stone shapes of birds. And
counting them I saw that those birds were
twenty-six bluejays.

Unquestionably — startling and impos-

500

WEIRD TALES

sible as it seemed — I was in the same set-
ting as described in Larla’s book! It was
a staggering revelation, and my mind
reeled at the thought of it. How strange,
how odd that I should be drawn to a por-
tion of the city I had never before fre-
quented and thrown into the midst of a
narrative written almost a year before!

I saw now that Alessandro Larla, writ-
ing as a patient in the institution for the
insane, had seized isolated details but neg-
lected to explain them. Here was a
problem for the psychologist, the mad, the
symbolic, the incredible story of the dead
Italian. I was bewildered, confused, and
I pondered for an answer.

As if to soothe my perturbation there
stole into the court then a faint odor of
perfume. Pleasantly it touched my nos-
trils, seemed to blend with the moonlight.
I breathed it in deeply as I stood there by
the curious fountain. But slowly that
odor became more noticeable, grew strong-
er, a sickish sweet smell that began to
creep down my lungs like smoke. And
absently I recognized it. Heliotrope! The
honeyed aroma blanketed the garden,
thickened the air, seemed to fall upon me
like a drug.

And then came my second surprize of
the evening. Looking about to discover
the source of the irritating fragrance I
saw opposite me, seated on another stone
bench, a woman. She was dressed entire-
ly in black, and her face was hidden by a
veil. She seemed unaware of my pres-
ence. Her head was slightly bowed, and
her whole position suggested a person
deep in contemplation.

I noticed also the thing that crouched
by her side. It was a dog, a tremendous
brute with a head strangely out of pro-
portion and eyes as large as the ends of
big spoons. For several moments I stood
staring at the two of them. Although the
air was quite chilly, the women were no

over-jacket, only the black dress relieved
solely by the whiteness of her throat.

W ith a sigh of regret at having my
pleasant solitude thus disturbed I
moved across the court until I stood at her
side. Still she showed no recognition of
my presence, and clearing my throat I said
hesitatingly:

"I suppose you are the owner here.
I ... I really didn’t know the place
was occupied, and the gate . . . well, the
gate was unlocked. I’m sorry I tres-
passed.”

She made no reply to that, and the
dog merely gazed at me in dumb silence.
No graceful words of polite departure
came to my lips, and I moved hesitatingly
toward the gate.

"Please don’t go,” she said suddenly,
looking up. "I’m lonely. Oh, if you but
knew how lonely I am!” She moved to
one side on the bench and motioned that
I sit beside her. The dog continued to
examine me with its big eyes.

Whether it was the nearness of that
odor of heliotrope, the suddenness of it
all, or perhaps the moonlight, I did not
know, but at her words a thrill of pleasure
ran through me, and I accepted the prof-
fered seat.

There followed an interval of silence,
during which I puzzled my brain for a
means to start conversation. But abrupt-
ly she turned to the beast and said in
German:

’’Fort mit dir, Johann!"

The dog rose obediently to its feet and
stole slowly oif into the shadows. I
watched it for a moment until it disap-
peared in the direction of the house.
Then the woman said to me in English
which was slightly stilted and marked
with an accent:

"It has been ages since I have spoken to
any one. . » We are Strangers. I do

REVELATIONS IN BLACK

501

not know you, and you do not know me.
Yet ... strangers sometimes find in
each other a bond of interest. Suppos-
ing . . . supposing we forget customs
and formality of introduction? Shall
we?”

For some reason I felt my pulse quick-
en as she said that. "Please do,” I re-
plied. "A spot like this is enough intro-
duction in itself. Tell me, do you live
here?”

She made no answer for a moment, and
I began to fear I had taken her sugges-
tion too quickly. Then she began slowly:

"My name is Perle von Mauren, and I
am really a stranger to your country,
though I have been here now more than
a year. My home is in Austria near what
is now the Czechoslovakian frontier.
You see, it was to find my only brother
that I came to the United States. During
the war he was a lieutenant under Gen-
eral Mackensen, but in 1916, in April
I believe it was, he ... he was reported
missing.

"War is a cruel thing. It took our
money; it took our castle on the Danube,
and then — my brother. Those following
years were horrible. We lived always in
doubt, hoping against hope that he was
still living.

'Then after the Armistice a fellow
officer claimed to have served next to him
on grave-digging detail at a French prison
camp near Monpre. And later came a
thin rumor that he was in the United
States. I gathered together as much
money as I could and came here in search
of him.”

Her voice dwindled off, and she sat in
silence staring at the brown weeds. When
she resumed, her voice was low and wa-
vering.

"I . . . found him . . . but would
to God I hadn’t! He , . , he was no
longer living.”

I stared at her. "Dead?” I asked.

The veil trembled as though moved by
a shudder, as though her thoughts had ex-
humed some terrible event of the past.
Unconscious of my interruption she went
on:

"Tonight I came here — I don’t know
why — merely because the gate was un-
locked, and there was a place of quiet
within. Now have I bored you with my
confidences and personal history?”

"Not at all,” I replied. "I came here
by chance myself. Probably the beauty
of the place attracted me. I dabble in
amateur photography occasionally and
react strongly to unusual scenes. Tonight
I went for a midnight stroll to relieve my
mind from the bad effect of a book I was
reading."

She made a strange reply to that, a
reply away from our line of thought and
which seemed an interjection that escaped
her involuntarily.

"Books,” she said, "are powerful
things. They can fetter one more than
the walls of a prison.”

She caught my puzzled stare at the
remark and added hastily: "It is odd that
we should meet here.”

For a moment I didn’t answer. I was
thinking of her heliotrope perfume, which
for a woman of her apparent culture was
applied in far too great a quantity to man-
ifest good taste. The impression stole
upon me that the perfume cloaked some
secret, that if it were removed I should
find . . . but what? It was ridiculous,
and I tried to cast the feeling aside.

The hours passed, and still we sat there
talking, enjoying each other’s companion-
ship. She did not remove her veil, and
though I was burning with a desire to see
her features, I had not dared ask her to.
A strange nervousness had slowly seized
me. The woman was a charming conver-
sationalist, but there was about her an in-

502

WEIRD TALES

definable something which produced in
me a distinct feeling of unease.

It was, I should judge, but a few mo-
ments before the first streaks of dawn
when it happened. As I look back now,
even with mundane objects and thoughts
on every side, it is not difficult to realize
the dire significance, the absolute baseness
of that vision. But at the time my brain
was too much in a whirl to understand.

A thin shadow moving across the gar-
den attracted my gaze once again into the
night about me. I lodked up over the
spire of the deserted house and started as
if struck by a blow. For a moment I
thought I had seen a curious cloud forma-
tion racing low directly above me, a cloud
black and impenetrable with two wing-
like ends strangely in the shape of a mon-
strous flying bat.

I blinked my eyes hard and looked
again.

"That cloud!" I exclaimed, "that
strange cloud! . . , Did you see ”

I stopped and stared dumbly.

The bench at my side was empty. The
woman had disappeared.

D uring the next day I went about my
professional duties in £he law office
with only half interest, and my business
partner looked at me queerly several
times when he came upon me mumbling
to myself. The incidents of the evening
before were rushing through my mind in
grand turmoil. Questions unanswerable
hammered at me. That I should have
come upon the very details described by
mad Larla in his strange book: the leering
fish, the praying child, the twenty-six
bluejays, the pointed shadow of the cu-
pola — it was unexplainable; it was v/eird.

"Five Unicorns and a Pearl.” The
unicorns were the stone statues ornament-
ing the old fountain, yes— but the pearl?
With a start I suddenly recalled the name

of the woman in black: Perle von Mauren.
The revelation climaxed my train of
thought. What did it all mean?

Dinner had little attraction for me that
evening. Earlier I had gone to the an-
tique-dealer and begged him to loan me
the sequel, the second volume of his
brother Alessandro. When he had re-
fused, objected because I had not yet re-
turned the first book, my nerves had sud-
denly jumped on edge. I felt like a nar-
cotic fiend faced with the realization that
he could not procure the desired drug. In
desperation, yet hardly knowing why, I
offered the man money, more money,
until at length I had come away, my
powers of persuasion and my pocket-book
successful.

The second volume was identical in
outward respects to its predecessor except
that it bore no title. But if I was expect-
ing more disclosures in symbolism I was
doomed to disappointment. Vague as
"Five Unicorns and a Pearl” had been,
the text of the sequel was even more wan-
dering and was obviously only the ram-
blings of a mad brain. By watching, the
sentences closely I did gather that Ales-
sandro Larla had made a second trip to
his court of the twenty-six bluejays and
met there again his "pearl.”

There was a paragraph toward the end
that puzzled me. It read:

"Can it possibly be? 1 pray that it is
not. And yet I have seen it and heard it
snarl. Oh, the loathsome creature! 1 will
not, I will not believe it.”

I closed the book with a snap and tried
to divert my attention elsewhere by pol-
ishing the lens of my newest portable
camera. But again, as before, that same
urge stole upon me, that same desire to
visit the garden. I confess that I had
watched the intervening hours until I
would meet the woman in black again; for
strangely enough, in spite of her abrupt

REVELATIONS IN BLACK

503

exit before, I never doubted but that she
would be there waiting for me. I wanted
her to lift the veil. I wanted to talk with
her. I wanted to throw myself once again
into the narrative of Larla’s book.

Yet the whole thing seemed preposter-
ous, and I fought the sensation with every
ounce of will-power I could call to mind.
Then it suddenly occurred to me what a
remarkable picture she would make, sit-
ting there on the stone bench, clothed in
black, with the classic background of the
old courtyard. If I could but catch the
scene on a photographic plate. . . .

I halted my polishing and mused a mo-
ment. With a new electric flash-lamp,
that handy invention which has sup-
planted the old mussy flash-powder, I
could illuminate the garden and snap the
picture with ease. And if the result were
satisfactory it would make a worthy con-
tribution to the International Camera Con-
test at Geneva next month.

The idea appealed to me, and gather-
ing together the necessary equipment I
drew on an ulster ( for it was a wet, chilly
night) and slipped out of my rooms and
headed northward. Mad, unseeing fool
that I was! If only I had stopped then
and there, returned the book to the an-
tique-dealer and dosed the incident! But
the strange magnetic attraction had
gripped me in earnest, and I rushed head-
long into the horror.

A fall rain was drumming the pave-
ment, and the streets were deserted.
Off to the east, however, the heavy blanket
of douds glowed with a soft radiance
where the moon was trying to break
through, and a strong wind from the
south gave promise of clearing the skies
before long. With my coat collar turned
well up at the throat I passed once again
into the older section of the town and
down forgotten Easterly Street. I found

the gate to the grounds unlocked as be-
fore, and the garden a dripping place
masked in shadow.

The woman was not there. Still the
hour was early, and I did not for a mo-
ment doubt that she would appear later.
Gripped now with the enthusiasm of my
plan, I set the camera carefully on the
stone fountain, training the lens as well
as I could on the bendi where we had
sat the previous evening. The flash-
lamp with its battery handle I laid within
easy reach.

Scarcely had I finished my arrangements
when the crunch of gravel on the path
caused me to turn. She was approaching
the stone bench, heavily veiled as before
and with the same sweeping black dress.

"You have come again,” she said as I
took my place beside her.

"Yes,” I replied. "I could not stay
away.”

Our conversation that night gradually
centered about her dead brother, although
I thought several times that the woman
tried to avoid the subject. He had been,
it seemed, the black sheep of the family,
had led more or less of a dissolute life
and had been expelled from the Univer-
sity ot Vienna not only because of his lack
of respect for the pedagogues of the vari-
ous sciences but also because of his queer
unorthodox papers on philosophy. His
sufferings in the war prison camp must
have been intense. With a kind of grim
delight she dwelt on his horrible expe-
riences in the grave-digging detail which
had been related to her by the fellow
officer. But of the manner in which he
had met his death she would say abso-
lutely nothing.

Stronger than on tire night before was
the sweet smell of heliotrope. And
again as the fumes crept nauseatingly
down my lungs there came that same sense
of nervousness, that same feeling that the

504

WEIRD TALES

perfume was hiding something I should
know. The desire to see beneath the veil
had become maddening by this time, but
still I lacked the boldness to ask her to
lift it.

Toward midnight the heavens cleared
and the moon in splendid contrast shone
high in the sky. The time had come for
my picture.

"Sit where you are,’’ I said. 'Til be
back in a moment.”

Stepping quickly to the fountain I
grasped the flash-lamp, held it aloft for
an instant and placed my finger on the
shutter lever of the camera. The woman
remained motionless on the bench,
evidently puzzled as to the meaning of my
movements. The range was perfect. A
click, and a dazzling white light enveloped
the courtyard about us. For a brief second
she was outlined there against the old
wall. Then the blue moonlight returned,
and I was smiling in satisfaction.

"It ought to make a beautiful picture,”
I said.

She leaped to her feet.

"Fool!” she cried hoarsely. "Blunder-
ing fool! What have you done?”

E ven though the veil was there to hide
her face I got the instant impression
that her eyes were glaring at me, smol-
dering with hatred. I gazed at her curi-
ously as she stood erect, head thrown back,
body apparently taut as wire, and a slow
shudder crept down my spine. Then
without warning she gathered up her
dress and ran down the path toward the
deserted house. A moment later she had
disappeared somewhere in the shadows of
the giant bushes.

I stood there by the fountain, staring
after her in a daze. Suddenly, off in the
umbra of the house’s facade there rose a
low animal snarl.

And then before I could move, a huge

gray shape came hurtling through the
long weeds, bounding in great leaps
straight toward me. It was the woman’s
dog, which I had seen with her the night
before. But no longer was it a beast pas-
sive and silent. Its face was contorted in
diabolic fury, and its jaws were dripping
slaver. Even in that moment of terror as
I stood frozen before it, the sight of those
white nostrils and those black hyalescent
eyes emblazoned itself on my mind, never
to be forgotten.

Then with a lunge it was upon me. I
had only time to thrust the flash-lamp up-
ward in half protection and throw my
weight to the side. My arm jumped in
recoil. The bulb exploded, and I could
feel those teeth clamp down hard on the
handle. Backward I fell, a scream gur-
gling to my lips, a terrific heaviness
surging upon my body.

I struck out frantically, beat my fists
into that growling face. My fingers
groped blindly for its throat, sank deep
into the hairy flesh. I could feel its very
breath mingling with my own now, but
desperately I hung on.

The pressure of my hands told. The
dog coughed and fell back. And seizing
that instant I struggled to my feet,
jumped forward and planted a terrific
kick straight into the brute’s middle.

"Fort mit dir, Johann!” I cried, remem-
bering the woman’s German command.

It leaped back and, fangs bared, glared
at me motionless for a moment. Then
abruptly it turned and slunk off through
the weeds.

Weak and trembling, I drew myself
together, picked up my camera and passed
through the gate toward home.

T hree days passed. Those endless
hours I spent confined to my apart-
ment suffering the tortures of the damned.
On the day following the night of my

REVELATIONS IN BLACK

505

terrible experience with the dog I realized
I was in no condition to go to work. I
drank two cups of strong black coffee and
then forced myself to sit quietly in a chair,
hoping to soothe my nerves. But the
sight of the camera there on the table ex-
cited me to action. Five minutes later
I was in the dark room arranged as my
studio, developing the picture I had taken
the night before. I worked feverishly,
urged on by the thought of what an un-
usual contribution it would make for the
amateur contest next month at Geneva,
should the result be successful.

An exclamation burst from my lips as
I stared at the still-wet print. There was
the old garden clear and sharp with the
bushes, the statue of the child, the foun-
tain and the wall in the background, but
the bench — the stone bench was empty.
There was nc sign, not even a blur of the
woman in black.

My brain in a whirl, I rushed the neg-
ative through a saturated solution of mer-
curic chloride in water, then treated it with
ferrous oxalate. But even after this inten-
sifying process the second print was like
the first, focused in every detail, the bench
standing in the foreground in sharp relief,
but no trace of the woman.

I stared incredulously. She had been
in plain view when I snapped the shut-
ter. Of that I was positive. And my cam-
era was in perfect condition. What then
was wrong? Not until I had looked at
the print bard in tire daylight would I be-
lieve my eyes. No explanation offered
itself, none at all; and at length, confused
unto weakness, I returned to my bed and
fell into a heavy sleep.

Straight through the day I slept. Hours
later I seemed to wake from a vague
nightmare, and had not strength to rise
from my pillow. A great physical faint-
ness had overwhelmed me. My arms, my
legs, lay like dead things. My heart was

fluttering weakly. All was quiet, so still
that the clock on my bureau ticked dis-
tinctly each passing second. The curtain
billowed in the night breeze, though I
was positive I had closed the casement
when I entered the room.

And then suddenly I threw back my
head and screamed from the bottomest
depths of my soul! For slowly, slowly
creeping down my lungs was that detest-
able odor of heliotrope!

Morning, and I found all was not a
dream. My head was ringing, my hands
trembling, and I was so weak I could
hardly stand. The doctor I called in
looked grave as he felt my pulse.

"You are on the verge of a complete
collapse,” he said. "If you do not aHow
yourself a rest it may permanently affect
your mind. Take things easy for a while.
And if you don’t mind, I’ll cauterize those
two little cuts on your neck. They’re
rather raw wounds. What caused them?”

I moved my fingers to my throat and
drew them away again tipped with blood.

"I ... I don’t know,” I faltered.

He busied himself with his medicines,
and a few minutes later reached for his
hat.

"I advise that you don’t leave your bed
for a week at least,” he said. "I’ll give
you a thorough examination then and see
if there are any signs of anemia.” But as
he went out the door I thought I saw a
puzzled look on his face.

Those subsequent hours allowed my
thoughts to run wild once more. I vowed
I would forget it all, go back to my work
and never look upon the books again.
But I knew I could not. The woman in
black persisted in my mind, and each min-
ute away from her became a torture. But
more than that, if there had been a de-
cided urge to continue my reading in the
second book, the desire to see the third
book, the last of the trilogy, was slowly

506

IWEIRD TALES

increasing to an obsession. It gripped
me, etched itself deep into my thoughts.

At length I could stand it no longer,
and on the morning of the third day I
took a cab to the antique store and tried
to persuade Larla to give me the third vol-
ume of his brother. But the Italian was
firm. I had already taken two books,
neither of which I had returned. Until
I brought them back he would not listen.
Vainly I tried to explain that one was of
no value without the sequel and that I
wanted to read the entire narrative as a
unit. He merely shrugged his shoulders
and toyed with his watch chain.

Cold perspiration broke out on my fore-
head as I heard my desire disregarded.
Like the blows of a bludgeon the thought
beat upon me that I must have that book.
I argued. I pleaded. But to no avail.

At length when Larla had turned the
other way I gave in to desperation, seized
the third book as I saw it lying on the
shelf, slid it into my pocket and walked
guiltily out. I make no apologies for my
action. In the light of what developed
later it may be considered a temptation in-
spired, for my will at the time was a con-
quered thing blanketed by that strange
lure.

B ack in my apartment I dropped into a
chair and hastened to open the vel-
vet cover. Here was the last chronicling
of that strange series of events which had
so completely become a part of my life
during the past five days. Larla’s volume
three. Would all be explained in its
pages? If so, what secret would be re-
vealed?

With the light from a reading-lamp
glaring full over my shoulder I opened
the book, thumbed through it slowly, mar-
veling again at the exquisite hand-print-
ing. It seemed then as I sat there that an
almost palpable cloud of intense quiet

settled over me, a mental miasma muffling
the distant sounds of the street. I was
vaguely aware of an atmosphere, heavy
and dense, in which objects other than the
book lost their focus and became blurred
in proportion.

For a moment I hesitated. Something
psychic, something indefinable seemed to
forbid me to read farther. Conscience,
curiosity, that queer urge told me to go
on. Slowly, like a man in a hypnotic
trance wavering between two wills, I be-
gan to turn the pages, one at a time, from
back to front.

Symbolism again. Vague wanderings
with no sane meaning.

But suddenly my fingers stopped! My
eyes had caught sight of the last para-
graph on the last page, the final pennings
of Alessandro Larla. I started downward
as a terrific shock ripped through me from
head to foot. I read, re-read, and read
again those words, those blasphemous
words. I brought the book closer. I
traced each word in the lamplight, slowly,
carefully, letter for letter. I opened and
closed my eyes. Then the horror of it
burst like a bomb within me.

In blood-red ink the lines read:

"What shall I do? She has drained my
blood and rotted my soul. My pearl is
black, black as all evil. The curse be upon
her brother, for it is he who made her
thus. I pray the truth in these pages will
destroy them for ever.

"But my brain is hammering itself
apart. Heaven help me, Perle von Mau-
ren and her brother, Johann, are vam-
pires!”

With a scream I leaped to my feet.

"Vampires!” I shrieked. "Vampires!
Oh, my God!”

I clutched at the edge of the table and
stood there swaying, the realization of it
surging upon me like the blast of a fur-
nace. Vampires! Those horrible crea-

REVELATIONS IN BLACK

507

tures with a lust for human blood, fiends
of hell, taking the shape of men, of bats,
of dogs. I saw it all now, and my brain
reeled at the horror of it.

Oh, why had I been such a fool? Why
had I not looked beneath the surface,
taken away the veil, gone farther than the
perfume? That damnable heliotrope was
a mask, a mask hiding all the unspeak-
able foulness of the grave.

My emotions burst out of control then.
With a cry I swept the water-glass, the
books, the vase from the table, smote my
fist down upon the flat surface again and
again until a thousand little pains were
stabbing the flesh.

"Vampires!” I screamed. "No, no —
oh God, it isn’t true!”

But I knew that it was. The events of
the past days rose before me in all their
horror now, and I could see the black sig-
nificance of every detail.

The brother, Johann — some time since
the war he had become a vampire. When
the woman sought him out years later he
had forced this terrible existence upon her
too. Yes, that was it.

With the garden as their lair the two
of them had entangled poor Alessandro
Larla in. their serpentine coils a year be-
fore. He had loved the woman, had wor-
shipped her madly. And then he had
found the truth, the awful truth that had
sent him stumbling home, stark, raving
mad.

Mad, yes, but not mad enough to keep
him from writing the facts in his three
velvet-bound books for the world to see.
He had hoped the disclosures would dis-
patch the woman and her brother for ever.
But it was not enough.

F ollowing my thoughts, I whipped
the first book from the table stand and
opened the front cover. There again I

saw those scrawled lines which had meant
nothing to me before.

"Revelations meant to destroy but only
binding without the stake. Read, fool,
and enter my field, for we are chained to
the spot. Oh, wo unto Larla!"

Perle von Mauren had written that.
Fool that I was, unseeing fool! The
books had not put an end to the evil life
of her or her brother. No, only one thing
could do that. Yet the exposures had not
been written in vain. They were record-
ed for mortal posterity to see.

Those books bound the two vampires,
Perle von Mauren and her brother,
Johann, to the old garden, kept them from
roaming the night streets in search of vic-
tims. Only him who had once passed
through the gate could they pursue and
attack.

It was the old metaphysical law: evil
shrinking in the face of truth.

Yet if the books had bound their power
in chains they had also opened a new
avenue for their attacks. Once immersed
in the pages of the trilogy, the reader fell
helplessly into their clutches. Those
printed lines had become the outer reaches
of their web. They were an entrapping
net within which the power of the vam-
pires always crouched.

That was why my life had blended so
strangely with the story of Larla. The
moment I had cast my eyes on the open-
ing paragraph I had fallen into their coils
to do with as they had done with Larla a
year before. I had been lured, drawn re-
lentlessly into the tentacles of the woman
in black. Once I was past the garden
gate the binding spell of the books was
gone, and they were free to pursue me
and to

A giddy sensation rose within me.
Now I saw why the scientific doctor had
been puzzled. Now I saw the reason for
my physical weakness. Oh, the foul-

508

WEIRD TALES

ness of it! She had been — feasting on my
blood!

With a sobbing cry I flung the book
to a far corner, turned and began madly
pacing up and down the room. Cold per-
spiration oozed from every pore. My
heart pounded like a runner’s. My brain
ran wild.

Was I to end as Larla had ended,
another victim of this loathsome being’s
power? Was she to gorge herself further
on my life and live on? Were others to
be preyed upon and go down into the pits
of despair? No, and again no! If Larla
had been ignorant of the one and only
way in which to dispose of such a crea-
ture, I was not. I had not vacationed in
south Europe without learning something
of these ancient evils.

Frantically I looked about the room,
took in the objects about me.' A chair, a
table, a taboret, one of my cameras with
its long tripod. I stared at the latter as in
my terror-stricken mind a plan leaped into
action. With a lunge I was across the
floor, had seized one of the wooden legs
of the tripod in my hands. I snapped it
across my knee. Then, grasping the two
broken pieces, both now with sharp splin-
tered ends, I rushed hatless out of the
door to the street.

A moment later I was racing north-
ward in a cab bound for Easterly Street.

"Hurry!” I cried to the driver as I
glanced at the westering sun. "Faster, do
you hear?”

We shot along the cross-streets, into the
old suburbs and toward the outskirts of
town. Every traffic halt found me fum-
ing at the delay. But at length we drew
up before the wall of the garden.

Tossing the driver a bill, I swung the
wrought-iron gate open and with the
wooden pieces of the tripod still under my
arm, rushed in. The courtyard was a
place of reality in the daylight, but the

moldering masonry and tangled weeds
were steeped in silence as before.

S traight for the house I made, climb-
ing the rotten steps to the front en-
trance. The door was boarded up and
locked. Smothering an impulse to scream,
I retraced my steps at a run and began to
circle the south wall of the building. It
was this direction I had seen the woman
take when she had fled after I had tried to
snap her picture. The twenty-six blue-
jays on the wall leered at me like a flock
of harpies.

Well toward the rear of the building I
reached a small half -open door leading to
the cellar. For a moment I hesitated
there, sick with the dread of what I knew
lay before me. Then, clenching hard the
two wooden tripod stakes, I entered.

Inside, cloaked in gloom, a narrow cor-
ridor stretched before me. The floor was
littered with rubble and fallen masonry,
the ceiling interlaced with a thousand cob-
webs.

I stumbled forward, my eyes quickly
accustoming themselves to the half-light
from the almost opaque windows. A
maddening urge to leave it all and flee
back to the sunlight was welling up with-
in me now. I fought it back. Failure
would mean a continuation of the horrors
— a lingering death — would leave the
gate open for others.

At the end of the corridor a second
door barred my passage. I thrust it open
— and stood swaying there on the sill star-
ing inward. A great loathing crept over
me, a stifling sense of utter repulsion. Hot
blood rushed to my head. The air seemed
to move upward in palpable swirls.

Beyond was a small room, barely ten
feet square, with a low-raftered ceiling.
And by the light of the open door I saw
side by side in the center of the floor —
two white wood coffins.

REVELATIONS IN BLACK

509

How long I stood there leaning weakly
against the stone wall I don’t know.
There was a silence so profound the beat-
ing of my heart pulsed through the pas-
sage like the blows of a mallet. And
there was a slow penetrating odor drifting
from out of that chamber that entered my
nostrils and claimed instant recognition.
Heliotrope! But heliotrope defiled by the
rotting smell of an ancient grave.

Then suddenly with a determination
born of despair I leaped forward, rushed
to the nearest coffin, seized its cover and
ripped it open.

Would to heaven I could forget the
sight that met my eyes. There lay Perle
von Mauren, the woman in blade — un-
veiled.

That face — how can I describe it? It
was divinely beautiful, the hair black as
sable, the cheeks a classic white. But the
lips — oh God! those lips! I grew sudden-
ly sick as I looked upon them. They were
scarlet, crimson . . . and sticky with hu-
man blood.

I moved like an automaton then. With
a low sob I reached for one of the tripod
stakes, seized a flagstone from the floor
and with the pointed end of the wood
resting directly over the woman’s heart,
struck a crashing blow. The stake jumped
downward. A sickening crunch — and a
violent contortion shook the coffin. Up
to my face rushed a warm, nauseating
breath of rot and decay.

I wheeled and hurled open the lid of
her brother’s coffin. With only a flashing
glance at the young masculine Teutonic
face I raised the other stake high in the
air and brought it stabbing down with all
the strength in my light arm. Red blood
suddenly began to form a thick pool on
the floor.

For an instant I stood rooted to the
spot, the utter obscenity of it all searing
its way into my brain like a hot sword.

Even in that moment of stark horror I
realized that not even the most subtle
erasures of Time would be able to remove
that blasphemous sight from my inner eye.

It was a scene so abysmally corrupt — I
pray heaven my dreams will never find it
and re-vision its unholy tableau. There
before me, focused in the shaft of light
that filtered through the open door like
the miasma from a fever swamp, lay the
two white caskets.

And within them now, staring up at
me from eyeless sockets — two gray and
moldering skeletons, each with its hideous
leering head of death.

T he rest is but a vague dream. I seem
to remember rushing madly outside,
along the path to the gate and down the
street, down Easterly, away from that ac-
cursed garden of the jays.

At length, utterly exhausted, I reached
my apartment, burst open the door and
staggered in. Those mundane surround-
ings that confronted me were like balm to
my burning eyes. But as if in mocking
irony there centered into my gaze three
objects lying where I had left them, the
three volumes of Larla.

i moved across to them, picked them
up and stared down vacantly upon their
black sides. These were the hellish works
that had caused it all. These were the
pages that were responsible. . . .

With a low cry I turned to the grate
on the other side of £he room and flung
the three of them onto the still glowing
coals.

There was an instant hiss, and a line of
yellow flame streaked upward and began
eating into the velvet, I watched the fire
grow higher . . , higher . , , and di-
minish slowly.

And as the last glowing spark died into
a blackened ash there swept over me a
mighty feeling of quiet and relief.

buccaneers
of Venus

By OTIS ADELBERT KLINE

"He drew back bis band with a sharp exclamation of sur-
prize. The face was as hard and cold as marble."

A powerful weird-scientific story by a master of science-fiction —
a swift-moving tale of piracy, and weird monsters
on another planet

The Story Thus Far

R OBERT GRANDON, young Chi-
cago clubman who had fought his
way to the throne of Reabon,
mightiest empire of the planet Venus,
was honeymooning on the sea-coast with
his beautiful young bride, Vernia, Prin-
cess of Reabon, when she was carried off
by the Huitsenni, a hairless, toothless yei-
{510

low race of buccaneers against which
Grandon had previously formed a secret
alliance with three other Venusian rulers.

Grandon instantly set out in pursuit of
the pirate fleet in a small fishing-boat, ac-
companied by Kantar the Gunner, who
was an expert with the Venusian machine-
guns known as mattorks. They were cap-
tured by the buccaneers, but managed to

This story began in WEIRD TARES for November

BUCCANEERS OF VENUS

511

escape, after they reached Huitsen, the
hidden port of the pirates, and form an
alliance with the Chispoks, a secret society
opposed to piratical practises.

With the help of the Chispoks, Gran-
don got into the palace and killed Yin
Yin, the pirate ruler, while Kantar, mis-
taking another captive princess, Narine of
Tyrhana, for Vernia, escaped with her in
a small boat.

Vernia, meanwhile, was carried off by
Heg, Rogo of the Ibbits, a furry race of
savages inhabiting the antarctic wastes
south of Huitsen. Grandon killed Heg
and rescued Vernia, but they were later
captured by the Huitsenni, and Grandon
was condemned to death.

Kantar, who had in the meantime dis-
covered his mistake, fell in love with Na-
rine. They were recaptured by the pirates,
and rescued by the aerial battleships of
Zinlo of Olba. Zinlo took them to the
flagship of Ad of Tyrhana, father of Na-
rine, and they formulated a plan for cap-
turing Huitsen and rescuing Grandon and
Vernia.

CHAPTER 19
THE DUEL

B ack in the throne room of Thid Yet,
Rogo of Huitsen, Grandon, who had
been forced to his knees by his two burly
guards, awaited the stroke of Ez Bin, the
headsman. He saw the huge blade flash
upward, and nerved himself for a mighty
effort. As the two-handed scarbo de-
scended, he flung himself backward,
carrying both guards with him. The
heavy blade crashed to the polished glass
floor, and many tiny cracks radiated from
the point where it had struck.

Grandon instantly flung his right arm
forward once more. The guard who clung
to it tripped over the blade of Ez Bin, and

losing his hold, fell on his face before the
throne. His right arm now free, Gran-
don snatched the scarbo which depended
from the belt of the other guard, and ran
him through.

At this, one of Vernia’s guards sprang
forward and struck at Grandon with his
scarbo. The Earth-man side-stepped the
blow and countered with a slash to the
head that stretched his opponent on the
floor. In the meantime, Ez Bin had re-
covered his weapon, and made a terrific
swing at Grandon’ s neck. Dodging be-
neath the blade, the Earth-man stabbed
upward and thrust him through the
throat. Then, before any one could stop
him, he sprang straight for the monarch
who squatted on the throne.

With screams of terror, the slave-girls
scattered. But Thid Yet whipped out his
scarbo and leaped to his feet. He had not
been Rogo long enough to become fat
and flabby like Yin Yin from easy living,
nor was he a coward, but despite his great
girth, a trained fighting-man in the pink
of condition, and the veteran of many
hand-to-hand encounters which had made
him the most feared duelist in Huitsen.

"Stand back,” he shouted to the nobles
and soldiers who had begun to crowd
around. "Stand back and watch your
Rogo carve the heart from this white-
skinned slave who dares to attack the
throne of Huitsen.”

To the courtiers of Huitsen their rul-
er’s word was absolutely law; so they fell
back and made room for the two combat-
ants. Nor were any of them worried as
to the outcome. Thid Yet had not had
time to select any favorites from among
those who stood about his throne, which
he had seized with the assistance of the
navy faction, nor had he, as yet, conferred
any honors or promotions, If he were
slain, another would take his place, prob-

512

WEIRD TALES

ably no better or no worse, and Grandon
could easily be dealt with.

It was evident, as Thid Yet sprang for-
ward to meet the Earth-man, that despite
Grandon’s reputation as a swordsman, he
was positive he could easily best him —
that it would be an opportunity to add to
his laurels and convince the Huitsenni be-
yond all doubt that they were ruled by a
brave man.

As their blades clashed, and Grandon
felt the strength of his wrist and met the
lightning speed of his attack, he knew he
had an opponent worthy of his steel, and
that the outcome was indeed doubtful.
Blood was drawn on both sides at the very
start. First Thid Yet’s point raked Gran-
don’s cheek, cutting a deep gash. Then
the Earth-man countered with a swift
head cut. The Rogo parried in time to
save his head, but not his ear, which was
shorn off by the blow.

The spectators cried out in delighted
amazement at the swift and brilliant
sword-play that followed. Trained from
infancy in the use of the scarbo, these men
of Huitsen knew that they were witness-
ing a duel the like of which they might
never see again were they to live a dozen
lifetimes. One after another, Grandon
tried all the tricks he had learned from his
old fencing-master, Le Blanc, and from
the numerous scarbo experts he had en-
countered. But thrust or cut as he would,
the darting blade of Thid Yet was there
to meet his, and to counter wfith a light-
ning slash or a swift riposte. Time and
again Grandon received wounds which
might have been fatal had he not succeed-
ed in parrying them or springing back
just in time. And for every wound he
received, the yellow Rogo was dealt two,
though he was equally successful in avoid-
ing a fatal injury.

Bathed in blood and perspiration, the
two contestants fought -back and forth

over an area that had become slippery
with their own gore. Grandon’ s sword
arm began to ache. His head swam diz-
zily. Loss of blood was beginning to sap
his strength. He wondered how Thid
Yet, who appeared to be losing more
blood than he, could stand the terrific ex-
ertion. And wondering, he began to con-
serve his strength, to fight a defensive
rather than an offensive battle, and to
wait.

Presently the Earth-man felt the arm of
his adversary begin to weaken. Still he
fought cautiously, reserving his strength
for a final effort — waiting. Suddenly
Thid Yet extended his weapon in a vi-
cious but clumsy thrust at Grandon’s left
breast. With a quick parry, and a nar-
row moulinet ending in a swift drawing
cut, the Earth-man brought his keen blade
down on his opponent’s extended wrist,
shearing through bone and muscle. The
scarbo of the Rogo clattered to the floor,
his severed hand still clinging to the grip.

Thid Yet uttered a grunt of surprize
and pain, and stared at his spurting wrist
for a moment as if he could not believe
what he saw. Then he clamped the fin-
gers of his left hand just behind the stump
to stay the bleeding, and staggered back-
ward, collapsed against the base of his
throne.

I n the uproar that followed, Grandon
leaped back to where Vernia, who had
recovered consciousness shortly after the
duel commenced and watched it with
bated breath, stood in the custody of her
remaining guard. The fellow reached for
his scarbo, but not quickly enough. He
died with the blade half out of the scab-
bard and Grandon’s point through his
heart. With his left arm around his
wife’s slender waist, Grandon waved his
bloody scarbo, menacing the nobles and
warriors who were crowding around him.

W. T.— 7

BUCCANEERS OF VENUS

513

One elevated his tork, but ere he could
fire it, there was a report from an upper
balcony and he pitched forward on his
face. A voice rang out from above them.
"Back, all of you, and lay down your arms.
The first to menace Their Majesties dies.”

Looking up, Grandon saw Kantar
standing on a balcony, his tork muzzle
pointed over the railing. Behind him,
two Olban warriors guarded the door.

A number of the nobles had rushed to
Thid Yet’s assistance. Two of them
helped him to the throne, while a third
tightly bound his wrist with a strip of
silk torn from his own cloak. The cat-
like eyes of the Rogo glittered with hatred.

"Shoot them,” he groaned. "Slav them
all.”

A noble reached for his tork, followed
by two more. But as swiftly as they went
for their weapons, the tork of the gunner
spoke. One after another they sank to
the floor. The lesson was not lost on the
others. Most of them quickly complied
with Kantar’s request by opening their
belts and letting their weapons drop to
the floor. Then they clasped their hands
behind their heads in token of surrender.
A few guards who had rushed in from the
outer corridors to learn the cause of the
disturbance, quickly followed their ex-
ample.

"What’s this?” cried Thid Yet. "Is
my entire court to be captured by a single
marksman?” He reached for his own
tork. Then a bullet drilled him neatly
between the eyes and he slumped for-
ward, dead.

This settled the matter for those who
had hesitated to obey the commands of
the sharp-shooting gunner. They all
dropped their weapons and clasped their
hands behind their heads.

Leaving one of his companions to
cover the group while the other still
watched the door, Kantar dropped from
W. T.— 8

balcony to balcony until he reached the
floor. Scarcely had his feet touched its
mirrored surface ere a terrific bombard-
ment commenced outside. He ran over
to where Grandon and Vemia stood, and
made obeisance.

"What’s all the shooting about out-
side?” asked Grandon.

"Your Majesty’s warriors are attacking
the city,” replied Kantar, "under cover of
a barrage from the artillery. The air fleet
of Olba is also bombarding the city, as are
the ships of Reabon, Tyrhana and Adon-
ijar, which are now fighting their way into
the harbor and coming up the canal.”

"But you! Where did you come from
with these Olban warriors? Did you drop
from the sky?”

"In truth, I did. Majesty. Zinlo of
Olba, at my request, dropped me on one
of the outer balconies of the palace with
these two warriors. His airship was not
fired upon, as it came and went so sud-
denly that the Huitsenni had no time to
train their heavy mattorks on it. I hoped
to find you here, as a squadron sent to
follow the party of Ibbits with whom
Your Majesties were supposed to be trav-
eling, returned to report that you were not
with them. I feared that your lives would
be put in jeopardy by the attack, and so
came before the assault. By arguing with
our scarbos, we convinced several yellow
guards who barred our way that we had
important business with the Rogo of Huit-
sen. Then we came to the inner balcony.”

"You came in the nick of time, Gun-
ner,” said Grandon, "and I’m eternally
grateful. Now, let’s get out of here.”

The gunner signaled to the Olban war-
rior on the balcony. He called to his
companion, and the two dropped from
balcony to balcony under the protection
of the watchful gunner’s tork, until they
reached the floor.

"What shall we do with these prison-

514

WEIRD TALES

ers, Majesty?” asked Kantar, indicating
the group of disarmed nobles, officers and
slaves who still stood with their hands
clasped behind their heads.

Grandon thought for a moment.
''We’ll take them with us,” he decided.
"It is the only way. Let the two Olban
warriors bind their hands behind their
backs.”

W hile the members of the group
were being bound with strips tom
from their own clothing, Grandon select-
ed a tork and ammunition belt from the
pile of weapons. He also exchanged his.
nicked and bloody scarbo for a jewel-
hilted weapon which had belonged to one
of the nobles. Vemia also armed herself,
and the two assisted Kantar to keep watch
on the balconies and doorways. But it
soon appeared that there was no need for
this. Evidently the thunder of the con-
flict outside had prevented the palace in-
mates from taking any interest in what
went on in the throne room.

As soon as the prisoners had been
bound, Grandon divided them into two
groups, one to march before them, and
one behind. Then, with Grandon and
Kantar covering the group that marched
before and the two Olbans walking back-
ward with their torks trained on those who
came behind, they passed out into the cor-
ridor which led to the main gate.

They had scarcely moved twenty feet
along this corridor, when a considerable
body of Huitsenni, wearing white scarves
around their necks, poured in from a side
corridor. Grandon instantly elevated his
tork, but Kantar, recognizing the white
scarves as the symbol previously agreed
upon, stayed his hand.

"Don’t shoot, Majesty,” he said.
"These are friends.” He called to the ad-
vancing warriors. "Ho, Chispoks. We

are brothers and allies. Relieve us of
these prisoners.”

"Gladly, brothers. We were sent by
Han Lay to rescue you, and assist in tak-
ing the palace, but you have evidently
been able to take care of yourselves.”

"Is the palace taken?” Grandon asked
the mojak of the band.

The officer bowed low. "No, Majesty.
But it soon will be. Already a thousand
of the brotherhood have come in through
the boat entrances, and they are fighting
their way to the top. Five thousand more
are storming the gates on the street level,
and the rest stand ready to cut off the re-
treating army of Thid Yet.”

"Then my soldiers have broken
through?”

"They have. Majesty, and drive the
army of the false Rogo before them like
frightened frellas, while the warriors
from the ships close in from the other
side.”

"The false Rogo is now a dead Rogo,”
Grandon told him. "But where is Han

Lay?”

"He was to lead the charge on the pal-
ace gate, so it is there he will be if he has
not fallen.”

"Then let us charge through from the
inside. It will make victory swifter and
easier.”

"But most of my men are fighting on
the upper floors.”

"Never mind. Can you spare twenty?”

"Assuredly. Fifty.”

"Splendid! I will lead them.” He
turned to the two Olbans, who, relieved
of their prisoners, awaited orders. "Guard
Her Majesty well,” he commanded. Then,
to Kantar. "Come, Gunner.”

Followed by the fifty men whom the
mojak had detailed to accompany them,
Grandon and Kantar led the charge
through the entrance, and straight into the
melee where the palace guards strove with

BUCCANEERS OF VENUS

515

the Chispoks at the gate. For some min-
utes the guards, beset from both sides, of-
fered half-hearted resistance. Then, one
by one, they threw down their weapons
and clasped their hands behind their
heads. The attacking Chispoks surged
in, with Han Lay at their head.

"I rejoice to find you alive, Majesty,”
said Han Lay, rendering the royal salute
to Grandon.

"And I, you, Your Majesty soon to
be,” replied Grandon, returning his
salute.

Suddenly a string of aerial battleships
swooped down from the sky and circled
the palace. Swiftly their mattorks si-
lenced the weapons of those who fired at
them. Then they sailed up to the bal-
conies at the various levels, and Olban
warriors poured down their aluminum
stairways into the palace. The leading air-
ship settled beside the palace gate. The
steps dropped, and down them came Zin-
lo and Narine.

Grandon and Zinlo saluted each other
in the Zorovian fashion, then puzzled
those who stood around them by enthusi-
astically shaking hands, a purely earthly
demonstration which was unknown on
Venus.

"I see you are in at the kill, in spite of
the fact that we couldn’t notify you,” said
Zinlo.

"Decidedly,” replied Grandon. "Where
are Ad and Aardvan?”

"Coming. They have just accepted the
surrender of the Romojak of Huitsen, and
will be here in a moment.”

Grandon presented Han Lay to Zinlo
and Narine. Then Vernia came out, ac-
companied by her two Olban guards, and
to her he was also presented.

A moment later, three men strode up
to the palace gate, a half-dozen war-
riors making a way for them through the

vast multitude that had gathered there.
They were Ad of Tyrhana, Aardvan of
Adonijar, and San Thoy. Grandon held
a short conference with his allies. Then,
accompanied by Han Lay, he mounted to
the top step of the aluminum stairs which
led to Zinlo’s flagship. It was a position
from which he could command a view of
the entire crowd, and be seen by them.

"People of Huitsen,” he shouted.
"First of all, I want to tell you, and I
speak on behalf of my allies as well as
myself, that we are not here to exact trib-
utes or reparations, nor to gloat over a
prostrate foe. On the contrary, we wish
to establish friendly relations with the
people of Huitsen — relations that will last
through the years. The officer and re-
nowned warrior who stands here beside
me is willing to meet the conditions which
will best foster these relations, namely, an
abolition of piracy, the freeing of all
slaves who have been acquired by bucca-
neering and coastal raids, and the entry
of Huitsen into peaceful commerce with
the other nations of this planet.

"Being in full accord with these pol-
icies, we will withdraw our warriors as
soon as a treaty is concluded with him, if
you will acclaim him your Rogo. What is
your pleasure?”

"Han Lay for Rogo,” shouted a war-
rior. The shout was taken up by thou-
sands of throats.

Presently Grandon held up his hands
for silence. When the clamor had ceased,
he said: "Have you any other candidates
to propose?”

No one spoke. He waited for a mo-
ment. "Then acclaim him,” he cried.

"Hail Han Lay, Rogo of Huitsen!”
roared the crowd, as with one voice.

When the shouting had subsided to a
murmur, Grandon turned to Han Lay,
and said: "I have a suggestion, Your
Majesty. There is one who, though he

516

WEIRD TALES

has his little weaknesses, has been largely
instrumental in the consummation of this
glorious victory. I refer to San Thoy, and
recommend that he be suitably rewarded.”
The new Rogo beckoned to San Thoy,
who came and made obeisance before him.

"Rise, San Thoy, Romojak of the Na-
vies of Huitsen,” said Han Lay.

Then he and Grandon descended the
ladder, and amid the cheering of the pop-
ulace, the royal group, attended by their
officers and guards, went into the palace.

As they entered, Han Lay, who was
walking beside Grandon, said: "What of
this lascivious Rogo who was the cause of
Her Majesty’s abduction? Can we be of
assistance in bringing him to justice?”
"You can, decidedly,” replied Gran-
don. “I had already thought of a plan.
I should like to borrow one of your largest
vessels complete with officers and crew,
with San Thoy in command. Also, if you
can furnish me with a sculptor who can
make a life-like image of one who will
pose for him, say in wax, or some such
material, I shall be able to complete my
plans without great difficulty.”

"These are but trifles,” protested Han
Lay. "A ship will be put at your disposal
immediately, and within the hour a dozen
such sculptors as you require will await
your pleasure.”

"Excellent! As soon as I have had these
scratches dressed, I’ll explain my plan to
you.”

CHAPTER 20

RETRIBUTION AND REWARD

T en days had elapsed since the fall of
Huitsen. On the day following their
victory, the ships and warriors of the
allies had sailed away. Only a part of the
Olban air fleet remained, while Grandon,
Vernia, Zinlo, Loralie, Kantar and Na-
rine stayed at the palaee as guests of the

new Rogo. Now Han Lay stood on the
palace steps, surrounded by his nobles
and officers, to bid his friends farewell.

Zinlo’ s flagship had descended to the
ground, and two of its aluminum stair-
cases had been lowered. Up one of these,
a number of Huitsenni struggled with
two heavy, coffin-like chests, and passed
them to the waiting Olbans.

Farewells were said, and, one by one,
Han Lay’s guests mounted the other stair-
way. The stairs were raised, the doors
were closed, and the mighty airship shot
skyward, while the people cheered and
the palace mattorks thundered a farewell
salute.

At an elevation of about two thousand
feet, the flagship darted seaward, fol-
lowed by the fleet, which had been hover-
ing above the palace.

Installed in his luxurious cabin, Zin-
lo’ s guests sipped kova and chatted gayly.
Having seen to their comforts, the Tor-
rogo of Olba climbed to the forward tur-
ret to note their progress.

Presently Grandon joined him. "Are
you sure wq can catch San Thoy before he
reaches the rendezvous?” he asked.

"Positive,” Zinlo replied. "We have
already covered half the distance.”

"Marvellous! How fast will these
things go, anyway?”

"Earth distance and time, about a thou-
sand miles an hour. In Olba, the speed
is reckoned in rotations of the planet at
its equator, or fractions thereof. Our
smallest and slowest ships make at least a
quarter of a rotation. This one can easily
do a rotation.”

"I thought the shoreline of Huitsen
receded pretty fast, but I didn’t know it
was quite that speedy. Look! We’re pass-
ing over a fleet, now.”

"That’s Ad of Tyrhana, ready to at-
tack Zanaloth from the south. See that
fleet over to the west? That’s Aard-

BUCCANEERS OF VENUS

517

van, spoiling for a fight. Your own ships
are over at your right, and the fleet that
set sail from Reabon under your orders
should be within twenty-five miles of the
north coast of the Island of the Valkars
by now.”

"Why, there’s San Thoy’s ship,
already.”

"Right. We’ll ascend and. do a little
scouting before we drop you off.”

He gave several swift orders to his Ro-
mojak. Then the entire fleet of aircraft
shot skyward, and entered the lowest
cloud stratum.

Looking down through the thin veil of
vapor, Grandon presently descried an
island, the Island of the Valkars. An-
chored off its tiny harbor was a single
battleship, flying the flag of Mernerum.
But behind a jutting promontory, only a
little way off, fully fifty big battleships
lurked.

"It’s just as you thought,” said Zinlo,
at sight of the concealed ships. "Either
Zanaloth was afraid of treachery on the
part of the Huitsenni, or he intended
treachery toward them. He came pre-
pared for trouble, in any event.”

They cruised toward the north a few
minutes longer, and Grandon saw another
fleet, consisting of fully a hundred splen-
did battleships, the pride of Reabon’s
navy, sailing toward the island. Zinlo
saw them, too, and immediately gave
orders to turn back.

"All is ready,” he said. "Now, if you
still insist. I’ll put you on San Thoy’s ship,
but I can’t for the life of me see the sense
of it. We’ve got them bottled up, any-
way, and it won’t be much of a job to
lick them.”

"I’ll tell you why I insist on carrying
out my plan,” replied Grandon. "It’s the
only way I can make sure of meeting my
worst enemy face to face.”

"I see. You want the pleasure of kill-

ing him, yourself. Well, I don’t blame
you.”

They paused, at this moment, above the
bat-winged vessel which Han Lay had
lent to Grandon, and Zinlo gave orders
for them to descend.

Lightly the airship dropped beside the
vessel. Grappling-irons were tossed
aboard, and the two stairways let down.
Grandon bade his friends good-bye, and
took Vernia in his arms. She clung to
him at the door — begged him not to go.
"You are putting your head in the mouth
of the marmelot,” she said. "Why not
capture him first, then deal with him
afterward? I’m afraid for you.”

"And I,” replied Grandon, "am. afraid
he might otherwise escape me. This way,
he will not.”

As he descended the ladder, San Thoy
stood on the deck to greet him, mumbling
kerra spores and grinning toothlessly. In
the meantime, the two casket-like chests
which had been brought in the airship
were lowered to the deck of the vessel.
The stairs were drawn up and the grap-
pling-irons cast off.

Grandon waved farewell to his friends,
and entered the cabin of the bowing San
Thoy.

Z analoth, dissolute Torrogo of Mer-
nerum, sat at the gold-topped table in
the luxurious cabin of his flagship, sip-
ping kova. Oglo, Romojak of the Im-
perial Navy, stood at attention, awaiting
his pleasure.

Presently the dissipated Torrogo turned
his bloated countenance toward his chief
naval officer, and said: "The time is

nearly at hand, Oglo. Are you positive
that everything is ready?”

"Positive, Your Majesty. A thousand
warriors are concealed in the hold, await-
ing instructions. Our fleet lurks in readi-

518

WEIRD TALES

ness to come to us under full sail at the
boom of the first mattork.”

Zanaloth emptied his kova bowl and
smacked his thick, sensuous lips. "Very
good. Very good, indeed. If the pirates
come in a single ship, as we agreed, we
can capture it. If they mean treachery, and
have other vessels standing by to attack
us, they will easily be taken care of by
our battle fleet.

"Now let us review your instructions,
so there will be no mistakes. As soon as
the pirates display the royal prisoner, we
will request that she be brought aboard
our vessel. They, on their side, will no
doubt insist that the gold be transferred
to their ship. We will agree to this, and
begin transferring the gold. But as soon
as the Princess of Reabon is safely inside
this cabin, I will enter in and close the
door. That will be your signal to attack.
Let the warriors take the place of the gold-
passers, and charge into the other ship.
See that you have plenty of grappling-
irons aboard her, so she can’t slip away
from us. And don’t forget to go into
action immediately with the mattorks, so
the battle fleet will know they are to start
at once.”

"To hear Your Majesty is to obey,” re-
plied Oglo.

"And remember. Every man aboard
the pirate vessel must die. If need be, we
will sink their ship, but first we must try
to get back what gold has been taken
aboard her. As for the slaves we are sup-
posed to have put ashore for them, the
pirates will not live to look for them. We
will have both the girl and the gold, and
the Rogo of Huitsen will perhaps guess
that he has been beaten at his own game,
but he will have no proof.”

"I will not forget, Majesty.”

“If your head fails you in this, I prom-
ise it will no longer remain on your shoul-

ders to trouble you. Go, now, and watch
for that ship.”

Oglo made profound obeisance, and
withdrew.

Zanaloth fidgeted impatiently. Present-
ly he quaffed another bowl of kova and
getting ponderously to his feet, paced the
floor.

Suddenly the door was flung open, and
Oglo, bowing on the threshold, an-
nounced breathlessly: "A sail, Majesty!
A pirate sail!”

Zanaloth grunted. "So! They come to
the rendezvous at last.”

He squeezed his ample girth through
the doorway, and walked forward, Oglo
following at a respectful distance. Then
he took the glass which his romojak ob-
sequiously proffered, and focused it on
the approaching vessel. Traveling under
full sail before a stiff breeze, it was mak-
ing considerable speed.

"Bones of Thorth!” he exclaimed. "We
must save that splendid ship, if possible.
It flies over the water like an ormf. A
few alterations, and it will never be recog-
nized.”

As if its commander had no suspicion
of treachery, the pirate ship sailed swiftly
up to them, hove to, and dropped its
anchors. An officer came out of a cabin,
wearing the uniform of a romojak, and
Zanaloth hailed him.

"Are you Thid Yet, Romojak of Huit-
sen?” he asked.

“No, I am San Thoy, Romojak of Huit-
sen,” was the reply. “Thid Yet is dead,
and I have come to keep the rendezvous
in his place.”

"You have brought the royal slave-
girl?”

"We have, Your Majesty. And what of
the gold?”

"We stand ready to deliver it to you.
But first let me see the royal prisoner.”

BUCCANEERS OF VENUS

519

"What of the slaves you were to place
on the island for us?”

"They are there, under guard, awaiting
your pleasure. But let us see your pris-
oner.”

"Very well, Majesty.”

San Thoy went into a cabin, and re-
mained for several minutes. Then he
came out, alone. "She has fainted. Your
Majesty. Will you not come aboard and
see her?”

"Ha! What’s this? Perhaps you have
not brought her, after all.”

'Well then, if you doubt my word, I’ll
have her carried out, so you may view
her.”

He raised his hand, and a mojak
entered the cabin. He came out in a mo-
ment, followed by four Huitsenni, who
bore a litter on which reposed the golden-
haired, richly clad figure of a young
woman.

Zanaloth stared until he was watery-
eyed. Then he focused his glass on the
recumbent figure and stared again.

"By the blood and body of Thorth!” he
exclaimed to Oglo. "It is she. It must be.
For nowhere on Zorovia is there beauty
such as hers.” To San Thoy he called: "I
am satisfied. Let us draw the ships
together with grappling-irons. My men
are ready to unload the gold.”

I rons were quickly hurled from ship to
ship, and the chains, drawn taut by
hand-turned winches, gradually drew the
two vessels together. This achieved, gang-
planks were dropped across, fore and aft,
and Zanaloth’s men began carrying bars
of gold to the pirate ship from the after
hold, to be checked, weighed and received
by members of the yellow crew.

For some time Zanaloth and San Thoy
chatted across the rails. Then the latter
said: "Nearly half the gold is unloaded.

Shall we convey Her Majesty to the quar-
ters you have provided for her?”

This was precisely what Zanaloth
wanted, but he did not wish to appear too
eager. "At your convenience,” he re-
plied. "The cabin behind me has been
prepared for her.”

San Thoy signaled to the officer who
stood near the recumbent figure. The lat-
ter gave a command, and four Huitsenni
took up the litter, while four more came
out from the cabin and fell in behind them
with a heavy, ornate chest about seven
feet in length.

"What is in that chest?” asked Zana-
loth, suspiciously.

"A few of Her Majesty’s belongings,”
replied San Thoy. "Mostly wearing-ap-
parel and ornaments.”

San Thoy himself crossed the gang-
plank ahead of the others.

"This cabin?” he asked, indicating the
door of Zanaloth’s cabin.

"That is right. Just leave her in there,
and I’ll call the ship’s doctor to attend
her in a moment.”

Zanaloth drank in the beauty of the
recumbent girlish form as it was borne
past him. "How still she is!” he thought.
"Perhaps she is dead, and they have
tricked me.” But a searching look at the
red lips and pink cheeks reassured him.
"No corpse could have such bloom of life
and health as this,” he reasoned.

Under the supervision of their officer,
the eight men placed the litter and the
large chest in the cabin. Then they re-
tired.

"You will excuse me,” said Zanaloth,
formally, "if I go to examine the mer-
chandise I have purchased at so high a
price.”

"Assuredly,” replied San Thoy. "I will,
in the meantime, take a closer look at the
gold with which it was purchased.” He
bowed low, with right hand extended

520

WEIRD TALES

palm downward, and turning, crossed the
plank to his own ship.

Zanaloth watched his broad back with
a supercilious sneer, until he had reached
his own vessel. Then, with a significant
glance at Oglo, he swung on his heel, and
entering his cabin, slammed the door shut
behind him. The boom of a mattork out-
side instantly followed his action. It was
succeeded by shouts, commands, shrieks
and groans, mingled with the popping of
torks, the clash of blades, the scurrying of
feet on deck, and the rumble of mattorks.
He smiled cunningly as he thought of the
splendid prize which his concealed war-
riors would take so easily, and of the very
slight expense at which he had been to
secure the golden-haired beauty who lay
at his mercy on the litter before him.

He crossed the room, and kneeling,
touched a rosy cheek. Then he drew back
his hand with a sharp exclamation of sur-
prize. The face was as hard and cold as if
it had been hewn from marble.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and
closed with a grip that made him wince.
He was jerked to his feet, and spun around
to face a tall, handsome stranger, who
wore the scarlet of royalty and the in-
signia of the imperial house of Reabon.

"Who — who are you?” he stammered,
his trembling voice barely audible above
the din of battle outside.

"I am Grandon of Terra, Torrogo of
Reabon, and husband of her whom you
would have wronged — whose graven
image you just now profaned by the touch
of your filthy hand.”

Behind Grandon, the ornate chest
under which the four Huitsenni had stag-
gered stood with the lid thrown back,
empty. Zanaloth’s gaze roved from this
to the door, as he realized the manner in
which Grandon had gained access to his
cabin. He leaped for the door, but found

it locked. Grandon reached in his belt-
pouch and held up the key.

"Wha — what do you want?” asked
Zanaloth.

"I have come for your head,” replied
the Earth-man, whipping out his scarbo.
"On guard, if you have the manhood left
to defend it.”

With trembling fingers, Zanaloth drew
his own scarbo. In his youth he had been
accounted an excellent scarboman. But
that day was long past. Years of dissipa-
tion and luxurious living had made him
short of breath and flabby of muscle. And
he knew that there were few, if any, of
the most expert duelists on Zorovia who
could meet Grandon of Terra, scarbo in
hand, and live to boast of it. Only a
trick, a sudden, unexpected move, might
save him. He came on guard, but before
the blades had touched, lowered his point.

"I can not fight you,” he whined. "It
would be suicide.”

Unsuspecting, Grandon lowered his
own point.

"You may choose between — — ” he
began. But just then Zanaloth raised his
weapon and lunged at his opponent’s un-
protected body. Grandon had no time to
parry this vicious and cowardly thrust.
Barely in time to avert disaster, he hurled
himself to one side, so that the point only
grazed him. Zanaloth automatically re-
covered his stance as Grandon now at-
tacked. For a moment, it seemed to the
Mernerumite that the blade of his op-
ponent had wrapped itself around his
own. Then his weapon was twisted from
his grasp, and flew through the air to
alight in a corner of the cabin. Zanaloth
started back, his eyes wide with terror, as
the point of the Earth-man plunged
straight for his breast. But Grandon
stopped the thrust, and contented himself
with merely touching his antagonist.

BUCCANEERS OF VENUS

521

T HE din of battle had increased out-
side, but neither man heeded it.

"I suggest that you pick up your scar-
bo,” said Grandon, ''and that hereafter
you keep a tighter grip on it.”

Furtively watching his generous op-
ponent, Zanaloth slunk to the corner and
recovered his weapon. He knew that he
could not hope to win this fight, that
death had marked him for its own. Great
beads of sweat standing out on his fore-
head betrayed the fear that gripped his
craven heart.

At his left side, as at Grandon’ s, there
hung a jeweled, gold-plated tork. Sud-
denly he lowered his left hand, gripped
the weapon, and was about to press the
firing-button when a projectile struck his
wrist, numbing it, and paralyzing his fin-
gers. With incredible swiftness, Grandon
had again forestalled him.

Seeing that he had rendered the Mer-
nerumite’s tork hand useless, Grandon
lowered his own weapon. ''Since you can
no longer fight with the tork,” he said,
politely, ''perhaps we had best resume
with the scarbo.” He advanced, and once
more their blades met. "I advise you,”
continued Grandon, mechanically cutting,
thrusting and parrying, "to guard well
your head, as I have promised it to the
Rogo of Huitsen. A little gift to recom-
pense him for the loss of much gold and
many slaves. But then the head of a Tor-
rogo is a rare and truly royal gift, even if
its intrinsic worth is trifling.”

Zanaloth said nothing. He was fight-
ing with all his skill and strength, yet the
Earth-man was only playing with him.
Suddenly Grandon’s blade flashed in a
swift moulinet, touched the Mernerum-
ite’s neck, and v/as withdrawn, without
so much as drawing blood. But to Gran-
don’s surprize, his antagonist dropped his
weapon and sank to the floor, limp, and
apparently lifeless.

For some time the Earth-man stood
there, waiting, suspecting a trick. But as
his opponent continued motionless, he
bent and felt a flabby wrist, then held his
hand over the heart. There was no pulse.
Zanaloth of Mernerum was dead, not
slain by the scarbo, but by a weapon that
is often more deadly, that always tortures
before it kills — fear.

Grandon rose to his feet and sheathed
his bloodless blade. Then, taking the key
from his belt pouch, he opened the cabin
door and stepped out on deck. San Thoy
was waiting there to greet him. The fight-
ing had ceased, and the Huitsenni worked
side by side with his own Fighting Trav-
eks who had been concealed in the hold
of their ship. They were tossing the
corpses of the slain Mernerumites over-
board, tending the wounded, and guard-
ing the prisoners.

A large aerial battleship dropped
beside them. Grappling-irons were cast
aboard, and an aluminum stairway v/as
lowered. Zinlo stood in the doorway.

"The battle fleet of Mernerum has sur-
rendered,” he said. "Coming aboard?”
"Immediately,” replied Grandon. With
one foot on the stairway, he turned to San
Thoy. "Good-bye, my friend,” he said.
"Come and visit me in Reabon. Oh, by
the way! You will find the gift I promised
Han Lay on the floor of Zanaloth’s cabin.
Present it to him with my compliments.”
San Thoy bowed low, and grinned
toothlessly, as Grandon mounted the
stairs.

T he next day, Grandon sat at the crys-
tal-topped table in the drawing-room
of his private apartments in the imperial
palace of Reabon.

Bonal, his torrango, or prime minister,
appeared in the doorway and made obei-
sance. "The messenger has arrived from

522

WEIRD TALES

Mernerum, Your Majesty,” he an-
nounced.

"I’ll receive him here,” replied Gran-
don. ’"‘And by the way, Zonal, ask Zinlo
of Olba to come in now. ! want him to
be present at the interview.”

A few moments later, Bonal announced:
"His Imperial Majesty, Zinlo of Olba,
and Mojak Sed of the staff of Orthad, Su-
preme Romojak of Reabon.”

Zinlo entered, followed by a young
Reabonian officer. The Torrogo of Olba
took a seat at the table, and the demo-
cratic Grandon invited the young officer
also to be seated, knowing it would not
offend his equally democratic guest.

"You bring a message from Orthad?”
Grandon asked.

"I do, Majesty. He bids me inform you
that we took Mernerum with ease. The
people were sick of the tyrannous Zana-
loth, and most of them actually welcomed
us. We were delayed only by the diffi-
culties which, arise in moving so large an
army. The fighting was but desultory,
and there were few casualties.”

"What was the attitude of the nobles
and officials?”

"They begged that Mernerum be an-
nexed to Reabon, or if this should not
comport with Your Majesty’s wishes, that
you name a competent Torrogo to rule
them. So as soon as Kantar the Gunner
arrived in the Olban airship. His Excel-
lency named him Torrogo, in accordance
with Your Majesty’s commands. He was
later acclaimed by the nobles, warriors
and people without a dissenting voice.”
"What of the other ceremony?”

"It has been performed, Majesty. And
Her Majesty invites all to attend the feast
which will be held this evening.”

"Did you bring with you a messenger
from the new Torroga?”

“I did, your Majesty. He awaits your

permission to present his missive to Ad
of Tyrhana.”

"Good. You may go now. And send
this messenger to me.”

The mojak arose, and making the cus-
tomary obeisance, withdrew.

"Thus far,” Grandon told Zinlo, "our
plot has worked out. It remains to be
seen how Ad of Tyrhana will take the
news.” He called a guard. "Have Bonal
usher in Their Majesties of Tyrhana and
Adonijar,” he commanded.

"I can tell you how Ad will take it,”
said Zinlo. "He’ll take it as a marmelot
takes a slap on the nose. But it was the
only thing to do.”

A moment later, Ad and Aardvan
were ushered in by Bonal. A slave brought
kova, and the four Torrogos were chat-
ting merrily over their bowls v/hen Bonal
announced: "A messenger from Her Im-
perial Majesty, the Torroga of Mernerum,
to see His Imperial Majesty, the Torrogo
of Tyrhana.”

"What’s this?” exclaimed Ad. "I
didn’t know Zanaloth left a widow. And
why should she send a messenger to me?”

"Perhaps an interview with the mes-
senger will explain,” rumbled the deep-
voiced Aardvan.

"True. Show him in, Bonal.”

The messenger, who wore the uniform
of a mojak of the Imperial Guards of
Mernerum, made obeisance to all four of
the rulers. His puzzled look showed that
he did not know which one to address.

"I am the Torrogo of Tyrhana,” said
Ad. "I believe your message is for me.”

"It is. Your Majesty.” The mojak took
a small scroll from his belt pouch and
handed it to Ad. "From Her Imperial
Majesty, the Torroga of Mernerum,” he
said.

Ad broke the seai and unrolled the mis-
sive. First he looked puzzled, then
astounded, then fiercely angry. His face

BUCCANEERS OF VENUS

523

purpled and his brow contracted. "Blood
of Thorth!” he exploded. "Narine lias
eloped with that young upstart of a gun-
ner, and married him!”

"She could have done worse,” soothed
Grandon. "The gunner is now Torrogo
of Mernerum.”

"The little she-marmelot! The traitor!
The ungrateful child! I’ll disown her!
I’ll — I’ll ”

"Tut, tut,” said Aardvan. "I think she
has made a splendid match.”

"But what of Gadrimel? What of our
pact that my daughter and your son should
wed?”

"I don’t like to mention this,” replied
Aardvan, "but Gadrimel picked up a
slave-girl in Huitsen and brought her here
with him. Zena, I believe he called her,
an ex-concubine of Yin Yin’s. I told him
to get rid of her, and last night they both
disappeared. Later, I learned that they
had gone for a cruise in one of my ships.”

"Urn,” grunted Ad, non-committally.

"So you see,” continued Aardvan,

"their marriage would have been impos-
sible, anyway. Besides, we need no mar-
riage to cement the firm friendship
between us. And think, you will now
have as an additional ally the wealthy and
powerful Torrogo of Mernerum, your
son-in-law.”

"That’s right, Your Majesty,” said
Ziulo. "Forgive the child, and let’s pile
into one of my ships and attend the wed-
ding feast tonight, all of us.”

"What! You, too? This has all the
earmarks of a conspiracy,” said Ad.

Grandon filled the kova bowls all
around, then took up his own, and said:
"My friends, let us drink to the health and
happiness of the charming young bride
and the lucky bridegroom.”

Zinlo and Aardvan drained their bowls.
Ad hesitated for a moment, then caught
up his own bowl and emptied it with ap-
parent gusto. "Our work is done,” he
said. "The power of the pirates is bro-
ken, and the port of peril is no more. Let
us on to the wedding feast.”

[THE END]

^ of Shadows

By MARY ELIZABETH COUNSELMAN

A strange little story is this, about a family whose
images would not reflect in the mirror

T HE train pulled up with a noisy
jerk and wheeze, and I peered out
into the semi-gloom of dusk at the
little depot. What was the place? — "Oak
Grove.” I could read dimly the sign on
the station’s roof. I sighed wearily. Three
days on the train! Lord, I was tired of

the lurching roll, the cinders, the scenery
flying past my window! I came to a sud-
den decision and hurried down the aisle
to where the conductor was helping an
old lady off.

"How long do we stop here?” I asked
him quickly.

524

WEIRD TALES

"About ten minutes, ma’am,” he said,
and I stepped from the train to the smooth
sand in front of the station. So pleasant
to walk on firm ground again! I breathed
deeply of the spicy winter air, and
strolled to the far side of the station. A
brisk little wind was whipping my skirts
about my legs and blowing wisps of hair
into my eyes. I looked idly about at what
I could see of Oak Grove. It was a typical
small town — a little sleepier than some,
a little prettier than most. I wandered a
block or two toward the business dis-
trict, glancing nervously at my watch from
time to time. My ten minutes threatened
to be up, when I came upon two dogs
trying to tear a small kitten to pieces.

I dived into the fray and rescued the
kitten, not without a few bites and
scratches in the way of service wounds,
and put the little animal inside a store
doorway. At that moment a long-drawn,
it seemed to me derisive, whistle from my
train rent the quiet, and as I tore back
toward the station I heard it chugging
away. I reached the tracks just in time
to see the caboose rattling away into the
night.

What should I do? Oh, why had I
jumped off at this accursed little station?
My luggage, everything I possessed ex-
cept my purse, was on that vanished
train, and here I was, marooned in a vil-
lage I had never heard of before!

Or had I? "Oak Grove” . . . the name
had a familiar ring. Oak Grove ... ah!
I had it! My loommate at college two
years before had lived in a town called
Oak Grove. I darted into the depot.

"Does a Miss Mary Allison live here?”
I inquired of the station-master. "Mary
Deane Allison?”

I wondered at the peculiar unfathom-
able look the old man gave me, and at
his long silence before he answered my
question. "Yes’m,” he said slowly, with

an odd hesitancy that was very noticeable.
"You her kin?”

"No,” I smiled. "I went to college
with her. I ... I thought perhaps she
might put me up for the night. I’ve . . .
well, I was idiot enough to let my train
go off and leave me. Do you ... is she
fixed to put up an unexpected guest, do
you know?”

"Well” — again that odd hesitancy —
"we’ve a fair to middlin’ hotel here,” he
evaded. "Maybe you’d rather stay there.”

I frowned. Perhaps my old friend had
incurred the disapproval of Oak Grove
by indiscreet behavior — it seems a very
easy thing to do in rural towns. I looked
at him coldly.

"Perhaps you can direct me to her
house,” I said stiffly.

He did so, still with that strange re-
luctance.

I made my way to the big white house
at the far end of town, where I was told
Mary Allison lived. Vague memories flit-
ted through my mind of my chum as I had
seen her last, a vivacious cheerful girl
whose home and family life meant more
to her than college. I recalled hazy pic-
tures she had given me of her house, of
her parents and a brother whose picture
had been on our dresser at school. I found
myself hurrying forward with eagerness
to see her again and meet that doting
family of hers.

I found my way at last to the place, a
beautiful old Colonial mansion with
tall pillars. The grounds were overgrown
with shrubbery and weeds, and the enor-
mous white oaks completely screened the
great house from the street, giving it an
appearance of hiding from the world.
The place was sadly in need of repairs
and a gardener’s care, but it must have
been magnificent at one time.

I mounted the steps and rapped with

THE HOUSE OF SHADO WS

525

the heavy brass knocker. At my third
knock the massive door swung open a
little way, and my college friend stood
in the aperture, staring at me without a
word. I held out my hand, smiling de-
lightedly, and she took it in a slow in-
credulous grasp. She was unchanged, I
noticed — except, perhaps, that her danc-
ing bright-blue eyes had taken on a vague
dreamy look. There was an unnatural
quiet about her manner, too, which was
not noticeable until she spoke. She stood
in the doorway, staring at me with those
misty blue eyes for a long moment with-
out speech; then she said slowly, with
more amazement than I thought natural,
"Liz! Liz!” Her fingers tightened about
my hand as though she were afraid I
might suddenly vanish. "It’s . . . it’s
good to see you! Gosh! How . . . why
did you come here?” with a queer em-
barrassment.

"Well, to tell the truth, my train ran
off and left me when I got off for a breath
of air,” I confessed sheepishly. "But I’m
glad now that it did . . . remembered
you lived here, so here I am!” She mere-
ly stared at me strangely, still clutching
my hand. "There’s no train to Atlanta
till ten in the morning.” I hesitated, then
laughed, "Well, aren’t you going to ask
me in?”

"Why . . . why, of course,” Mary said
©ddly, as if the idea was strange and had
not occurred to her. "Come in!”

I stepped into the great hall, wonder-
ing at her queer manner. She had been
one of my best friends at college, so why
this odd constraint? Not quite as if she
did not want me around — more as if it
were queer that I should wish to enter
her house, as if I were a total stranger, a
creature from another planet! I tried to
attribute it to the unexpectedness of my
visit; yet inwardly I felt this explanation
was not sufficient.

"What a beautiful old place!” I ex-
claimed, with an effort to put her at ease
again. Then, as the complete silence of
the place struck me, unthinkingly I added,
"You don’t live here alone, do you?”

She gave me the oddest look, one I
could not fathom, and replied so softly
that I could hardly catch the words, "Oh,
no.”

I laughed. "Of course! I’m crazy . . ,
but where is everybody?”

I took off mv hat, looking about me
at the Colonial furniture and the large
candelabra on the walls with the clusters
of lighted candles which gave the only
light in the place — for there were no
modern lighting fixtures of any kind, I
noted. The dim candle-light threw deep
shadows about the hall — shadows that
flickered and moved, that seemed alive.
It should have given me a sense of nerv-
ous fear; yet somehow there was peace,
contentment, warmth about the old man-
sion. Yet, too, there was an incongruous
air of mystery, of unseen things in the
shadowy corners, of being watched by
unseen eyes.

"Where is everybody? Gone to bed?”
I repeated, as she seemed not to have
heard my question.

"Here they are,” Mary answered in
that strange hushed voice I had noticed,
as if some one were asleep whom she
might waken.

I looked in the direction she indicated,
and started slightly. I had not seen that
little group when I entered! They were
standing scarcely ten feet from me just
beyond the aura of light from the candles,
and they stared at me silently, huddled
together and motionless.

I smiled and glanced at Mary, who
said in a soft voice like the murmur of a
light wind, "My mother . . .”

I stepped forward and held out my
hand to the tall kind-faced woman who

526

WEIRD TALES

advanced a few steps from the half-seen
group in the shadows. She seemed, with-
out offense, not to see my hand, but mere-
ly gave me a beautiful smile and said, in
that same hushed voice Mary used, “If
you are my daughter’s friend, you are
welcome!”

I happened to glance at Mary from the
corner of my eye as she spoke, and I saw
my friend’s unnatural constraint vanish,
give place to a look, I thought wonder-
ingly, that was unmistakably one of re-
lief.

“My father,” Mary’s voice had a pecu-
liar tone of happiness. A tall distin-
guished-looking man of about forty
stepped toward me, smiling gently. He
too seemed not to see my outthrust hand,
but said in a quiet friendly voice, "I am
glad to know you, my dear. Mary has
spoken of you often.”

I made some friendly answer to the old
couple; then Mary said, “This is Lonny
. . . remember his picture?”

The handsome young man whose
photograph I remembered stepped for-
ward, grinning engagingly.

"So this is Liz!” he said. "Always
wanted to meet one girl who isn’t afraid
of a mouse . . . remember? Mary told us
about the time you put one in the prof’s
desk.” He too spoke in that near-whisper
that went oddly with his cheery words,
and I found myself unconsciously lower-
ing my voice to match theirs. They were
unusually quiet for such a merry friendly
group, and I was especially puzzled at
Mary’s hushed voice and manner — she
had always been a boisterous tomboy sort
of person.

“This is Betty,” Mary spoke again, a
strange glow lighting her face.

A small girl about twelve stepped
solemnly from the shadows and gave me
a grave old-fashioned curtsey.

"And Bill,” said Mary, as a chubby

child peeped out at me from behind his
sister’s dress and broke into a soft gur-
gling laugh.

"What darling kids!” I burst out.

The baby toddled out from behind
Betty and stood looking at me with big
blue eyes, head on one side. I stepped
forward to pat the curly head, but as I
put out a hand to touch him, he seemed
to draw away easily just out of reach. I
could not feel rebuffed, however, with
his bright eyes telling me plainly that I
was liked. It was just a baby’s natural
shyness with strangers, I told myself, and
made no other attempt to catch him.

A fter a moment’s conversation, during
- which my liking for this charming
family grew, Mary asked if I should like
to go to my room and freshen up a bit
before dinner. As I followed her up the
stairs, it struck me forcibly — as it had
before only vaguely — - that this family,
with the exception of Mary, were in very
bad health. From father to baby, they
were most pasty-white of complexion —
not sallow, I mused, but a sort of trans-
lucent white like the glazed-glass doors
of private offices. I attributed it to the
uncertain light of the candles that they
looked rather smoky, like figures in a
movie when the film has become old and
faded.

“Dinner at six,” Mary told me, smil-
ing, and left me to remove the travel-
stains.

I came downstairs a little before the
dinner hour, to find the hall deserted —
and, woman-like, I stopped to parade be-
fore a large cheval-glass in the wall. It
was a huge mirror, reflecting the whole
hall behind me, mellowly illumined in
the glow of the candles. Turning about
for a back-view of myself, I saw the lit-
tle baby. Bill, standing just beside me,
big eyes twinkling merrily.

THE HOUSE OF SHADOWS

527 ,

"Hello there, old fellow,” I smiled at
him. "Do I look all right?” I glanced
back at the mirror . . . and what it re-
flected gave me a shock.

I could see myself clearly in the big
glass, and most of the hall far behind
me, stretching back into the shadows.
But the baby was not reflected in the
glass at all! I moved, with a little chill,
just behind him . . . and I could see my
own reflection clearly, but it was as if he
was simply not there.

At that moment Mary called us to din-
ner, and I promptly forgot the disturbing
optical illusion with the parting resolve
to have my eyes examined. I held out my
hand to lead little Bill into the dining-
room, but he dodged by me with a mis-
chievous gurgle of laughter, and toddled
into the room ahead of me.

T hat was the pleasantest meal I can
remember. The food was excellent
and the conversation cheery and light,
though I had to strain to catch words
spoken at the far end of the table, as
they still spoke in that queer hushed tone.
My voice, breaking into the murmur of
theirs, sounded loud and discordant,
though I have a real Southern voice.

Mary served the dinner, hopping up
and running back into the kitchen from
time to time to fetch things. By this I
gathered that they were in rather strait-
ened circumstances and could not afford
a servant. I chattered gayly to Lonny
and Mary, while the baby and Betty lis-
tened with obvious delight and Mary’s
parents put in a word occasionally when
they could break into our chatter.

It was a merry informal dinner, not
unusual except that the conversation was
carried on in that near-whisper. I no-
ticed vaguely that Mary and I were the
only ones who ate anything at all. The
others merely toyed with their food, cut-

ting it up ready for eating but not tasting
a bite, though several times they would
raise a fork to their lips and put it down
again, as though pretending to eat. Even
the baby only splashed with his little fork
in his rice and kept his eyes fixed on me,
now and then breaking into that merry
gurgling laugh.

We wandered into the library after
the meal, where Mary and I chatted of
old times. Mr. Allison and his wife read
or gave ear to our prattling from time to
time, smiling and winking at each other.
Lonny, with the baby in his lap and Betty
perched on the arm of his chair, laughed
with us at some foolish tale of our fresh-
man days.

At about eleven Mary caught me yawn-
ing covertly, and hustled me off to bed.
I obediently retired, thankful for a bed
that did not roll me from side to side all
night, and crawled in bed in borrowed
pajamas with a book, to read myself to
sleep by the flickering candle on my bed-
side table.

I must have dropped off to sleep sud-
denly, for I awoke to find my candle
still burning. I was about to blow it out
and go back to sleep when a slight sound
startled the last trace of drowsiness from
me.

It was the gentle rattle of my door-
knob being turned very quietly.

An impulse made me feign sleep,
though my eyes were not quite closed
and I watched the door through my eye-
lashes. It swung open slowly, and Mrs.
Allison came into the room. She walked
with absolute noiselessness up to my bed,
and stood looking down at me intently.
I shut my eyes tightly so my eyelids would
not flutter, and when I opened them
slightly in a moment, she was moving
toward the door, apparently satisfied that
I was fast asleep. I thought she was go-

528

WEIRD TALES

ing out again, but she paused at the door
and beckoned to some one outside in the
hali.

Slowly and with incredible lack of
sound, there tiptoed into my room Mr.
Allison, Lonny, Betty, and the baby. They
stood beside the bed looking down at me
with such tender expressions that I was
touched.

I conquered an impulse to open my
eyes and ask them what they meant by
this late visit, deciding to wait and watch.
It did not occur to me to be frightened
at this midnight intrusion. There swept
over me instead a sense of unutterable
peace and safety, a feeling of being
watched over and guarded by some be-
nevolent angel.

They stood for a long moment without
speaking, and then the little girl, bend-
ing close to me, gently caressed my hand,
which was lying on the coverlet. I con-
trolled a start with great effort.

Her little hand was icy cold — not with
the coldness of hands, but with a peculiar
windy coldness. It was as if some one
had merely blown a breath of icy air on
me, for though her hand rested a moment
on mine, it had no weight!

Then, still without speaking but with
gentle affectionate smiles on all their
faces, they tiptoed out in single file. Won-
dering at their actions, I dropped off at
last into a serene sleep.

M ary brought my breakfast to my bed
next morning, and sat chattering
with me while I ate. I dressed leisurely
and made ready to catch my ten o’clock
train. When the time drew near, I asked
Mary where her family was — they were
nowhere in the house and I had seen none
of them since the night before. I reiter-
ated how charming they were, and how
happy my visit had been. That little

glow of happiness lighted my friend’s
face again, but at my next words it van*
ished into one that was certainly fright-
ened pleading. I had merely asked to
tell them good-bye.

That, odd unfathomable expression
flitted across her face once more. "They
. . . they're gone,” she said in a strained
whisper. And as I stared at her per-
plexedly, she added in confusion, "I ... I
mean, they’re away. They won’t be back
until . . . nightfall,” the last word was
so low it was almost unintelligible.

So I told her to give them my thanks
and farewells. She did not seem to want
to accompany me to the train, so I went
alone. My train was late, and I wandered
to the ticket window and chatted with the
station-master.

"Miss Allison has a charming family,
hasn’t she?” I began conversationally.
"They seem so devoted to each other.”

Then I saw the station-master was star-
ing at me as if I had suddenly gone mad.
His wrinkled face had gone very pale.

"You stayed there last night?” His
voice was almost a croak.

"Why, yes!” I replied, wondering at
his behavior. "I did. Why not?”

"And . . . you saw . . . them?” his
voice sank to a whisper.

"You mean Mary’s family?” I asked,
becoming a little annoyed at his foolish
perturbation. "Certainly I saw them!
What’s so strange about that? What’s
wrong with them?”

My approaching train wailed in the
distance, but I lingered to hear his reply.
It came with that same reluctance, that
same hesitancy, after a long moment.

"They died last year,” he whispered,
leaning forward toward me and fixing me
with wide intent eyes. "Wiped out —
every one of ’em exceptin’ Mary — by
smallpox.”

UeiRD JTi

A RtPRINT

an Absinthe Bottle

By W. C. MORROW

A RTHUR KIMBERLIN, a young
man of very high spirit, found
■** himself a total stranger in San
Francisco one rainy evening, at a time
when his heart was breaking; for his
hunger was of that most poignant kind
in which physical suffering is forced to
the highest point without impairment of
the mental functions. There remained
in his possession not a thing that he
might have pawned for a morsel to eat;
and even as it was, he had stripped his
body of all articles of clothing except
those which a remaining sense of de-
cency compelled him to retain. Hence
it was that cold assailed him and con-
spired with hunger to complete his mis-
ery. Having been brought into the world
and reared a gentleman, he lacked the
courage to beg and the skill to steal.
Had not an extraordinary thing occurred
to him, he either would have drowned
himself in the bay within twenty-four
hours or died of pneumonia in the street.
He had been seventy hours without food,
and his mental desperation had driven
him far in its race with his physical needs
to consume the strength within him; so
that now, pale, weak, and tottering, he
W. T.— 9

took what comfort he could find in the
savory odors which came steaming up
from the basement kitchen of the restau-
rants in Market Street, caring more to
gain them than to avoid the rain. His
teeth chattered; he shambled, stooped,
and gasped. He was too desperate to
curse his fate — he could only long for
food. He could not reason; he could not
understand that ten thousand hands
might gladly have fed him; he could
think only of the hunger which con-
sumed him, and of food that could give
him warmth and happiness.

When he had arrived at Mason Street,
he saw a restaurant a little way up that
thoroughfare, and for that he headed,
crossing the street diagonally. He stopped
before the window and ogled the steaks,
thick and lined with fat; big oysters lying
on ice; slices of ham as large as his hat;
whole roasted chickens, brown and juicy.
He ground his teeth, groaned, and stag-
gered on.

A few steps beyond was a drinking-
saloon, which had a private door at one
side, with the words "Family Entrance”
painted thereon. In the recess of the
door (which was closed) stood a man.

529

530

WEIRD TALES

In spite of his agony, Kimberlin saw
something in this man’s face that ap-
palled and fascinated him. Night was
on, and the light in the vicinity was dim;
but it was apparent that the stranger had
an appearance of whose character he him-
self must have been ignorant. Perhaps
it was the unspeakable anguish of it that
struck through Kimberlin’s sympathies.
The young man came to an unrertain
halt and stared at the stranger. At first
he was unseen, for the stranger looked
straight out into the street with singular
fixity, and the death-like pallor of his
face added a weirdness to the immobility
of his gaze. Then he took notice of the
young man.

"Ah,” he said, slowly and with pe-
culiar distinctness, "the rain has caught
you, too, without overcoat or umbrella!
Stand in this doorway — there is room
for two.”

The voice was not unkind, though it
had an alarming hardness. It was the
first word that had been addressed to the
sufferer since hunger had seized him, and
to be spoken to at all, and have his com-
fort regarded in the slightest way, gave
him cheer. He entered the embrasure
and stcod beside the stranger, who at
once relapsed into his fixed gaze at noth-
ing across the street. But presently the
stranger stirred himself again.

"It may rain a long time,” said he; "I
am cold, and I observe that you tremble.
Let us step inside and get a drink.”

He opened the door and Kimberlin
followed, hope beginning to lay a warm
hand upon his heart. The pale stranger
led the way into one of the little private
booths with which the place was fur-
nished. Before sitting down he put his
hand into his pocket and drew forth a
roll of bank-bills.

"You are younger than I,” he said;
"won’t you go to the bar and buy a bot-

tle of absinthe, and bring a pitcher of
water and some glasses? I don’t like for
the waiters to come around. Here is a
twenty- dollar bill.”

K imberlin took the bill and started
down through the corridor toward
the bar. He clutched the money tightly
in his palm; it felt warm and comforta-
ble, and sent a delicious tingling through
his arm. How many glorious hot meals
did that bill represent? He clutched it
tighter and hesitated. He thought he
smelled a broiled steak, with fat little
mushrooms and melted butter in the
steaming dish. He stopped and looked
back toward the door of the booth. He
saw that the stranger had closed it. He
could pass it, slip out the door, and buy
something to eat. He turned and started,
but the coward in him (there are other
names for this) tripped his resolution;
so he went straight to the bar and made
the purchase. This was so unusual that
the man who served him looked sharply
at him.

"Ain’t goin’ to drink all o’ that, are
you?” he asked.

"I have friends in the box,” replied
Kimberlin, "and we want to drink quiet-
ly and without interruption. We are in
Number 7.”

"Oh, beg pardon. That’s all right,”
said the man.

Kimberlin’s step was very much
stronger and steadier as he returned with
the liquor. He opened the door of the
booth. The stranger sat at the side of
the little table, staring at the opposite
wall just as he had stared across the
street. He wore a wide-brimmed, slouch
hat, drawn well down. It was only after
Kimberlin had set the bottle, pitcher, and
glasses on the table, and seated himself
opposite the stranger and within his
range of vision, that the pale man noticed
him.

OVER AN ABSINTHE BOTTLE

531

"Oh! you have brought it? How kind
of you! Now please lock the door.”

Kimberlin had slipped the change into
his pocket, and was in the act of bringing
it out when the stranger said, —

"Keep the change. You will need it,
for I am going to get it back in a way
that may interest you. Let us first drink,
and then I will explain.”

The pale man mixed two drinks of
absinthe and water, and the two drank.
Kimberlin, unsophisticated, had never
tasted the liquor before, and he found
it harsh and offensive; but no sooner
had it reached his stomach than it began
to warm him, and sent the most delicious
thrill through his frame.

"It will do us good,” said the stranger;
"presently we shall have more. Mean-
while, do you know how to throw dice?”

Kimberlin weakly confessed that he
did not.

"I thought not. Well, please go to
the bar and bring a dice-box. I would
ring for it, but I don't want the waiters
to be coming in.”

Kimberlin fetched the box, again
locked the door, and the game began.
It was not one of the simple old games,
but had complications, in which judg-
ment, as well as chance, played a part.
After a game or two without stakes, the
stranger said, —

"You now seem to understand it. Very
well — I will show you that you do not.
We will now throw for a dollar a game,
and in that way I shall win the money
that you received in change. Otherwise
I should be robbing you, and I imagine
you can not afford to lose. I mean no
offense. I am a plain-spoken man, but 1
believe in honesty before politeness. 1
merely want a little diversion, and you
are so kind-natured that I am sure you
will not object.”

"On the contrary,” replied Kimberlin,
"I shall enjoy it.”

"Very well; but let us have another
drink before we start. I believe I am
growing colder.”

They drank again, and this time the
starving man took his liquor with relish
— at least, it was something in his stom-
ach, and it warmed and delighted him.

T he stake was a dollar a side. Kim-
berlin won. The pale stranger
smiled grimly, and opened another
game. Again Kimberlin won. Then the
stranger pushed back his hat and fixed
that still gaze upon his opponent, smil-
ing yet. With this full view of the pale
stranger’s face, Kimberlin was more ap-
palled than ever. He had begun to ac-
quire a certain self-possession and ease,
and his marvelling at the singular char-
acter of the adventure had begun to
weaken, when this new incident threw
him back into confusion. It was the
extraordinary expression of the stranger’s
face that alarmed him. Never upon the
face of a living being had he seen a pal-
lor so death-like and chilling. The face
was more than pale; it was white. Kim-
berlin’s observing facultyhad been sharp-
ened by the absinthe, and, after having
detected the stranger in an absent-mind-
ed effort two or three times to stroke a
beard which had no existence, he reflected
that some of the whiteness of the face
might- be due to the recent removal of a
full beard. Besides the pallor, there were
deep and sharp lines upon the face,
which the electric light brought out very
distinctly. With the exception of the
steady glance of the eyes and an occa-
sional hard smile, which seemed out of
place upon such a face, the expression
was that of stone inartistically cut. The
eyes were black, but of heavy expression;
the lower lip was purple; the hands were

532

WEIRD TALES

fine, white, and thin, and dark veins
bulged out upon them. The stranger
pulled down his hat.

"You are lucky,” he said. "Suppose
we try another drink. There is nothing
like absinthe to sharpen one’s wits, and
I see that you and I are going to have a
delightful game.”

After the drink the game proceeded.
Kimberlin won from (he very first, rarely
losing a game. He became greatly ex-
cited. His eyes shone; color came to his
cheeks. The stranger, having exhausted
the roll of bills which he first produced,
drew forth another, much larger and of
higher denominations. There were sev-
eral thousand dollars in the roil. At
Kimberlin’s right hand were his win-
nings — something like two hundred dol-
lars. The stakes were raised, and the
game went rapidly on. Another drink
was taken. Then fortune turned the
stranger’s way, and he won easily. It
went back to Kimberlin, for he was now
playing with all the judgment and skill
he could command. Once only did it
occur to him to wonder what he should
do with the money if he should quit
winner; but a sense of honor decided
him that it would belong to the stranger.

By this time the absinthe had so sharp-
ened Kimberlin’s faculties that, the tem-
porary satisfaction which it had brought
to his hunger having passed, his physical
suffering returned with increased aggres-
siveness. Could he not order a supper
with his earnings? No; that was out of
the question, and the stranger said noth-
ing about eating. Kimberlin continued
to play, while the manifestations of hun-
ger took the form of sharp pains, which
darted through him viciously, causing him
to writhe and grind his teeth. The stran-
ger paid no attention, for he was now
wholly absorbed in the game. He seemed
puzzled and disconcerted. He played

with great care, studying each throw
minutely. No conversation passed be-
tween them now. They drapk occasion-
ally, the dice continued to rattle, the
money kept piling up at Kimberlin’s
hand.

The pale man began to behave strange-
ly. At times he would start and throw
back his head, as though he were listen-
ing. For a moment his eyes would sharp-
en and flash, and then sink into heaviness
again. More than once Kimberlin, who
had now begun to suspect his antagonist
was some kind of monster, saw a fright-
fully ghastly expression sweep over his
face, and his features would become
fixed for a very short time in a peculiar
grimace. It was noticeable, however, that
he was steadily sinking deeper and deep-
er into a condition of apathy. Occasion-
ally hewould raise his eyes to Kimberlin’s
face after the young man had made an
astonishingly lucky throw, and keep
them fixed there with a steadiness that
made the young man quail.

The stranger produced another roll of
bills when the second was gone, and this
had a value many times as great as the
others together. The stakes were raised
to a thousand dollars a game, and still
Kimberlin won. At last the time came
when the stranger braced himself for a
final effort. With speech somewhat thick,
but very deliberate and quiet, he said, —

"You have won seventy-four thousand
dollars, which is exactly the amount I
have remaining. We have been playing
for several hours. I am tired, and I sup-
pose you are. Let us finish the game.
Each will now stake his all and throw
a final game for it.”

W ithou r hesitation, Kimberlin

agreed. The bills made a consider-
able pile on the table. Kimberlin threw,
and the box held but one combination
that could possibly beat him; this com-

OVER AN ABSINTHE BOTTLE

533

bination might be thrown once in ten
thousand times. The starving man’s
heart beat violently as the stranger picked
up the box with exasperating delibera-
tion. It was a long time before he threw.
He made his combination and ended by
defeating his opponent. He sat looking
at the dice a long time, and then he slow-
ly leaned back in his chair, settled him-
self comfortably, raised his eyes to Kim-
berlin’s, and fixed that unearthly stare
upon him. He said not a word; his face
contained not a trace of emotion or intel-
ligence. He simply looked. One can not
keep one’s eyes open very long without
winking, but the stranger did. He sat
so motionless that Kimberlin began to
be tortured.

"I will go now,” he said to the strang-
er — said that when he had not a cent and
was starving.

The stranger made no reply, but did
not relax his gaze; and under that gaze
the young man shrank back in his own
chair, terrified. He became aware that
two men were cautiously talking in an
adjoining booth. As there was now a
deathly silence in his own, he listened,
and this is what he heard:

"Yes; he was seen to turn into this
street about three hours ago.”

"And he had shaved?”

"He must have done so; and to re-
move a full beard would naturally make
a great change in a man.”

"But it may not have been he.”

"True enough; but his extreme pallor
attracted attention. You know that he
has been troubled with heart-disease late-
ly, and it has affected him seriously.”
"Yes, but his old skill remains. Why,
this is the most daring bank-robbery we
ever had here. A hundred and forty-eight
thousand dollars — think of it! How
long has it been since he was let out of
Joliet?”

"Eight years. In that time he has

grown a beard, and lived by dice-throw-
ing with men who thought they could
detect him if he should swindle them;
but that is impossible. No human being
can come winner out of a game with him.
He is evidently not here; let us look
farther.”

Then the two men clinked glasses and
passed out.

The dice-players — the pale one and the
starving one — sat gazing at each other,
with a hundred and forty-eight thousand
dollars piled up between them. The Man-
ner made no move to take in the money;
he merely sat and stared at Kimberlin,
wholly unmoved by the conversation in
the adjoining room. His imperturbability
was amazing, his absolute stillness ter-
rifying.

Kimberlin began to shake with an
ague. The cold, steady gaze of the stran-
ger sent ice into his marrow. Unable to
bear longer this unwavering look, Kim-
berlin moved to one side, and then he
was amazed to discover that the eyes of
the pale man, instead of following him,
remained fixed upon the spot where he
had sat, or, rather, upon the wall behind
it. A great dread beset the young man.
He feared to make the slightest sound.
Voices of men in the bar-room were audi-
ble, and the sufferer imagined that he
heard others whispering and tiptoeing
in the passage outside his booth. He
poured out some absinthe, watching his
strange companion all the while, and
drank alone and unnoticed. He took a
heavy drink, and it had a peculiar effect
upon him: he felt his heart bounding
with alarming force and rapidity, and
breathing was difficult. Still his hunger
remained, and that and the absinthe gave
him an idea that the gastric acids were
destroying him by digesting his stomach.
He leaned forward and whispered to the
stranger, but was given no attention. One
of the man’s hands lay upon the table;

534

WEIRD TALES

Kimberlin placed his upon it, and then
drew back in terror — the hand was as
cold as a stone.

The money must not lie there ex-
posed. Kimberlin arranged it into neat
parcels, looking furtively every moment
at his immovable companion, and in mor-
tal fear that he would stir! Then he sat
back and waited. A deadly fascination
impelled him to move back into his form-
er position, so as to bring his face di-
rectly before the gaze of the stranger.
And so the two sat and stared at each
other.

Kimberlin felt his breath coming
heavier and his heart-beats growing
weaker, but these conditions gave him
comfort by reducing his anxiety and
softening the pangs of hunger. He was
growing more and more comfortable and
yawned. If he had dared he might have
gone to sleep.

Suddenly a fierce light flooded his
vision and sent him with a bound to his
feet. Had he been struck upon the head
or stabbed to the heart? No; he was
sound and alive. The pale stranger still
sat there staring at nothing and immov-
able; but Kimberlin was no longer afraid
of him. On the contrary, an extraordi-
nary buoyancy of spirit and elasticity of
body made him feel reckless and daring.
His former timidity and scruples van-
ished, and he felt equal to any adventure.
Without hesitation he gathered up the
money and bestowed it in his several
pockets.

"I am a fool to starve,” he said to
himself, “with all this money ready to
my hand.”

A s cautiously as a thief he unlocked
l the door, stepped out, reclosed it,
and boldly and with head erect stalked
out upon the street. Much to his aston-
ishment, he found the city in the bustle

of the early evening, yet the sky was
clear. It was evident to him that he had
not been in the saloon as long as he had
supposed. He walked along the street
with the utmost unconcern of the dan-
gers that beset him, and laughed softly
but gleefully. Would he not eat now — ah,
would he not? Why, he could buy a dozen
restaurants! Not only that, but he would
hunt the city up and down for hungry
men and feed them with the fattest steaks,
the juiciest roasts, and the biggest oysters
that the town could supply. As for him-
self, he must eat first; after that he would
set up a great establishment for feeding
other hungry mortals without charge.
Yes, he would eat first; if he pleased,
he would eat till he should burst. In
what single place could he find sufficient
to satisfy his hunger? Could he live
sufficiently long to have an ox killed and
roasted whole for his supper? Besides
an ox he would order two dozen broiled
chickens, fifty dozen oysters, a dozen
crabs, ten dozen eggs, ten hams, eight
young pigs, twenty wild ducks, fifteen
fish of four different kinds, eight salads,
four dozen bottles each of claret, bur-
gundy, and champagne; for pastry, eight
plum-puddings, and for dessert, bushels
of nuts, ices, and confections. It would
require time to prepare such a meal, and
if he could only live until it could be
made ready it would be infinitely better
than to spoil his appetite with a dozen
or two meals of ordinary size. He thought
he could live that long, for he felt amaz-
ingly strong and bright. Never in his
life before had he walked with so great
ease and lightness; bis feet hardly touched
the ground — he ran and leaped. It did
him good to tantalize his hunger, for that
would make his relish of the feast all the
keener. Oh, but how they would stare
when he would give his order, and how
(Please turn to page 539)

I N THE January issue of Weird Tales, we asked you, the readers, whether you
wished us to discontinue stories of other planets and other stars. We asked this
question because of the vehement letters of protest against interplanetary stories
that we received from a number of our readers. The replies demonstrated the strong
hold that such imaginative tales as the interplanetary stories of Kline and the Interstel-
lar Patrol stories of Hamilton have upon your affections. There have been many letters
in favor of discontinuing such stories; but these have been swamped by the flood of
letters protesting against any decrease in the number of interplanetary tales in this
magazine. We bow to your wishes, and in this issue we are printing The Star-Roam-
ers, by Edmond Hamilton, and have a goodly number of excellent interplanetary stories
to follow, including Hamilton’s Thundering Worlds and The Horror on the Asteroid.
One qualification, however, appears frequently in the letters you have written urging
us to continue using interplanetary stories: that is, that the stories must be weird
enough to class as weird-scientific stories, and not merely pseudo-scientific. This seems
a reasonable demand, and we shall heed it.

Alford Cuatt, of Mamaroneck, New York, writes to the Eyrie: "Receiving my
January issue of Weird Tales later than usual, on account of my being up in the moun-
tains, I write immediately to defend stories of Otis Adelbert Kline’s caliber. It might
interest you to know that through the Buccaneers of Venus I have become an ardent
reader of Weird Tales., Picking up the magazine on a local news stand, I decided to
buy it because Kline’s story appealed to me. Incidentally, I read the other stories, and
feel now that I couldn’t get along without your magazine.”

"You certainly can pick out good stories,” writes Claude H. Cameron, of Toronto,
Canada. "The current issue is excellent, and it is really difficult to assign the first place
of preference, so evenly balanced is the entire issue. However, I think I would assign
first place to The Chadbourne Episode by Whitehead, because of its vital reality.
Somehow, due to Whitehead’s craftsmanship, the story rings true and seems entirely
plausible. I vote second place to The Mirror by Burrowes, because he sounds a new
note in a new way — logical, well written, excellently plotted.”

Writes Julius Hopkins, of Washington, D. C: "I am bitterly opposed to any idea
of eliminating interplanetary stories. They are a feature of our magazine. I am ex-
tremely distressed that you have neglected to have more of Edmond Hamilton’s Inter-
stellar Patrol stories and trust that in the near future I will have the opportunity to read
more of them in WT. I am enjoying tremendously the short stories reprinted from
back issues of WT and I congratulate you on your splendid selections.”

535

536

WEIRD TALES

Reginald A. Pryke writes from England: "Let me state without any preamble what-
soever that this letter constitutes an emphatic and almost shocked 'no' to the query:
'Shall we discontinue scientific stories?’ I read the question with dismay. I vote em-
phatically for the continuance of your present policy of including stories to suit all
tastes. Are you contemplating the destruction of the magazine’s reputation merely to
please a blustering few whose tastes are so hidebound as to refuse recognition to tales
that do not conform to their own ice-locked mentalities? Do I desire tales of years gone
by, of battle and majestic kingliness, I turn to Howard. Do I crave stories to curdle
my blood and bring shivers to my spine, I steer for Lovecraft and Quinn, and if I
yearn for a yarn of doom, awful and magnificent, of self-sacrifice and high endeavor,
I pick our old reliable Edmond Hamilton. Hamilton is the acknowledged master of
this type of fiction, yet you threaten to expunge from your periodical his imaginative
tales. Have done with this half-hearted hesitation.”

"De Brignac’s Lady, by Kirk Mashburn, is one of those stories that linger in the
memory long after they are read,” writes J. D. Arden, of Detroit. "Needless to say, it
is my favorite story in the February issue. Following that, I select The Fire Vampires,
by Donald Wandrei. One can always rely on Wandrei. His themes are unique and
original. What surprized me, however, was the high literary quality of the ’shorts.’
The Lovecraft story you used for the reprint was uncommonly good, but in my opinion
too short to be used as a reprint. I am still patiently waiting for you to reprint The
Woman of the Wood, by A. Merritt, which appeared in WT several years ago.”

"Although I was on the losing side in the recent controversy over reprint serials,”
writes Donald Allgeier, of Mountain Grove, Maryland, "I again take up the gage to
defend the pseudo-science serials. Without your weird-scientific stories your magazine
would lose much of its appeal to me. In my opinion Edmond Hamilton and Otis
Adelbert Kline are virtually unexcelled as authors, and both lean toward the science
type of fiction. The outstanding feature of your magazine is its variety, its wide scope,
its liberal translation of the word ‘weird.’ It is my opinion that a periodical filled en-
tirely with vampires and horror stories would become monotonous. Your science nov-
elettes are the cream of the crop. Keep them so and I will venture to say that the ap-
provals will shower over the protests.”

Mrs. M. McHenry, of Toledo, Ohio, writes to the Eyrie: "I wish to cast my vote
against stories dealing with other planets. Give us more stories about haunted houses,
werewolves, vampires, and about scientists who change parts of humans with animals,
etc. In fact, I like all your stories except the ones I mentioned at the beginning of
this paragraph; I always omit reading them. I especially liked Jules de Grandin and
would like to see one about him in every issue. In the February issue, which I have
just completed, my favorite story was De Brignac’s Lady, by Kirk Mashburn. Keep
Weird Tales weird.”

From Superior, Arizona, comes a letter from Mrs. P. E. Wilkins, who writes to
the Eyrie: "I have just finished reading my February issue of WT, and 'day by day in
every way it is getting better and better,’ especially the covers. The best story was un-
doubtedly De Brignac’s Lady. Kirk Mashburn almost makes me believe there really
are such things as vampires; and baby vampires — that is something new.”

Clark Ashton Smith, known to all of you by his artistic weird stories, writes:
"Howard’s The Scarlet Citadel, in the current WT. gave me a grand thrill. It seems

(Please turn to page 538 )

Coming Next Month

G OING below was like walking into salt water, the odor was that strong, push-
ing and holding us back, a nauseating odor, filthy, abominable, and beast-like.
I think I was faint when we reached the hold, for I can not otherwise quite
account for what happened. Bill was carrying a lighted candle while I unbattened the
hatch and looked in.

"Shut it! Shut it!” Bill screamed, and we hurled ourselves against the door, fasten-
ing it securely. Down in the hold we had seen a vast, shapeless mass of undulating
greenish-white stuff, thick as skin, with a beating motion like a pulse. The revolting
odor came from that mass, but what terrified us most was the way that pulpy sub-
stance leaped up at us when we opened the hatch! Leaped, like an unknown animal
after prey, with a furious beating of the pulse, its surface writhing into tentacles that
flung at us, and a hiss like an inarticulate cry.

The candle went out when Bill jumped. Darkness dropped upon us like a shroud.
We heard the thing undulating in the hold and pounding against the hatch.

Panic caught us. We dashed for the other hatchways and fought to get out. Once
on deck, we felt a bit ashamed, with the morning sun shining brightly. We looked at
each other, white and shaken, for all that. Then a wave of corruption eddied around
us, and we knew it came from the thing in the hold. . , .

New thrills await you in this story of a fearsome sea voyage, with a terrible death
striking from the hold, and shuddering dread as the constant companion of the voy-
agers. This startling narrative by the author of The Red Brain will be published com-
plete in next month’s Weird Tales:

SPAWN OF THE SEA

By DONALD WANDREI

—ALSO—

THE WHEEL DEAD MAN’S BELT

By H. Warner Munn By Hugh B. Cave

Another grim and powerful tale of torture, by A grim story of murder and the dwellers on a
the author of The Chain. city dump— an unusual and striking tale.

THE CARVEN IMAGE

By August W. Derleth and Mark Schorer

The story of a wooden image endued with a hideous life
— a grim, tragic tale of three bloody murders.

THE GIRL WITH THE GREEN EYES GOLDEN BLOOD

By Mary Elizabeth Counselman By Jack Williamson

An utterly strange story about witchcraft and oc- Another thrilling installment of this fascinating
cult powers of evil — a story of eery thrills. serial story.

May WEIRD TALES Out April 1

537

538

WEIRD TALES

( Continued from page 536)

to me that Howard is improving, that his tales are becoming weirder and more
imaginative. The only drawback, from my viewpoint, is the excessive manslaughter:
some time, I wish he would write a tale in which the hero isn’t always mowing peo-
ple down in windrows with a double-fisted sword. Apart from that element, The
Scarlet Citadel is absolutely first-rate; and probably most readers will like it all the
better for the super-heroism. Apropos of the interplanetary question: I vote for the
retention of such stories, but think they should be much weirder and better-written
than the general run. Tales such as Nictzin Dyalhis used to write would be suit-
able. Kline’s serial is enjoyable, and has touches of sly humor that lift it above
some of Burroughs’ work on similar themes. And I don’t mean to disparage Bur-
roughs either: his The Master Mind of Mars was a great story, no matter what the
pedants may say.”

A. V. Pershing, of Indianapolis, writes. "I vote that all reprints be taken from back
issues of Weird Tales. Please reprint all of Lovecraft’s stories, also The Woman of
the Wood by A. Merritt, and other rare gems of your magazine. I vote for vampire,
ghost, and Chinese stories, also the Howard type of story. There was only one thing
wrong with the January issue: it did not contain a story by Clark Ashton Smith.”

Readers, what is your favorite story in this issue of Weird Tales? De Brignac’s
Lady, Kirk Mashburn’s eery story of baby vampires, won first place in your letters
among all the stories in our February issue, as shown by your letters and votes. The
Chadbourne Episode, by the late Henry S. Whitehead, won second place.

Now for the big surprize: Your favorite stories from Weird Tales, past and
present, will be broadcast nationally, with prominent motion picture stars portray-
ing the characters. One of these radio dramatizations will be broadcast each week,
beginning with De Brignac’s Lady, by Kirk Mashbum. Watch your local newspa-
per for details.

My favorite stories in the April WEIRD TALES are:

Story Remarks

( 1 )

( 2 )

(3)

I do not like the following stories:

(1) — Why?

( 2 ) —

-

It will help us to know what kind of ^ Reader's name and address:

Stories you want in Weird Tales if you 1
will fill out this coupon and mail it to |

The Eyrie, Weird Tales, 840 N. Michigan I

Ave., Chicago, 111. I

WEIRD TALES

539

(Continued from page 534)
comically they would hang back, and how
amazed they would be when he would
throw a few thousands of dollars on the
counter and tell them to take their money
out of it and keep the change! Really,
it was worth while to be so hungry as
that, for then eating became an unspeak-
able luxury. And one must not be in too
great a hurry to eat when one is so hun-
gry — that is beastly. How much of the
joy of living do rich people miss from
eating before they are hungry — before
they have gone three days and nights
without food! And how manly it is, and
how great self-control it shows, to dally
with starvation when one has a dazzling
fortune in one’s pocket and every restau-
rant has an open door! To be hungry
without money — that is despair; to be
starving with a bursting pocket — that is
sublime! Surely the only true heaven is
that in which one famishes in the pres-
ence of abundant food, which he might
have for the taking, and then a gorged
stomach and a long sleep.

The starving wretch, speculating thus,
still kept from food. He felt himself
growing in stature, and the people whom
he met became pigmies. The streets wid-
ened, the stars became suns and dimmed
the electric lights, and the most intoxicat-
ing odors and the sweetest music filled
the air. Shouting, laughing, and singing,
Kimberlin joined in a great chorus that
swept over the city, and then

# # * #

T he two detectives who had traced
the famous bank-robber to the saloon
in Mason Street, where Kimberlin had
encountered the stranger of the pallid
face, left the saloon; but, unable to pur-
sue the trail farther, had finally returned.
They found the door of booth No. 7
locked. After rapping and calling and

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540

WEIRD TALES

receiving no answer, they burst open the
door, and there they saw two men — one
of middle age and the other very young
— sitting perfectly still, and in the stran-
gest manner imaginable staring at each
other across the table. Between them was
a great pile of money, arranged neatly
in parcels. Near at hand were an empty
absinthe bottle, a water-pitcher, glasses, ,
and a dice-box, with the dice lying before

the elder man as he had thrown them
last. One of the detectives covered the
elder man with a revolver and com-
manded, —

"Throw up your hands!”

But the dice-thrower paid no atten-
tion. The detectives exchanged startled
glances. They looked closer into the faces
of the two men, and then they discov-
ered that both were dead.

White Moth

By AUGUST W. DERLETH

A brief weird tale — a little white insect, fluttering just beyond the man’s reach,
became an instrument of retribution

P AUL BLAKE took the crape band
from his arm and laid it very care-
fully away. Then he glanced at him-
self in the large mirror and reflected that
he looked properly grieved. He sighed
with relief, and was about to turn away
from the mirror when he saw Alice. She
was standing just behind him, laughing
silently, and the glass gave back her re-
flection as clearly as his own. He spun
around, but there was nothing there.
Nerves, he thought, and shrugged his
shoulders. At any rate, Alice could not
have known — when he himself was not
sure. That arsenic had taken infernally
long to get down to business; three years
of feeding it to her, before the end came.
Paul Blake felt that his relief was justi-
fied.

As he stepped out of his chamber into
the hall, he saw Alice a second time. She
was walking along the hall not very far
from where he stood, and as he looked at
her, she turned and gave him a swift,

mocking glance. He leaned weakly
against the wall, and continued to lean
there even after she had disappeared
where her room was. When he had re-
covered himself sufficiently to stride away
from the wall, he felt that indeed his
nerves had been strained unduly, and that
perhaps he had better go away for a
while. And then immediately Alice was
there at his side; he almost fell on the
stairs, but caught himself in time.

"You can’t get away like that, Paul,”
she was saying. Oh! that was her voice,
all right; there was no mistaking it.

"Alice!” he muttered.

"Oh, it’s Alice, right enough,” she
said. "This is the first time I’ve seen you
worked up for three years — that’s correct,
isn’t it, three years? Dear me, how the
years go on!”

Paul took a firm hold of the banister
and began to descend the stairs. It was
as if he could feel Alice over his left
shoulder; there was no use in trying to

WEIRD TALES

541

shake off the feeling because he could
hear Alice’s voice all the time, and at the
same time he was trying very hard to for-
get how she looked as she lay in her cof-
fin those last few days.

"Of course, I knew it all along,” Alice
was saying. "Such infinite patience, Paul;
who would ever have thought it of you?
Your idea of gradually weakening me
was quite good — it worked, at any rate.”

"Alice — please — my God, Alice,” and
Paul Blake found that, standing there,
half-way down the stairs, there was noth-
ing in the world he could say to Alice.
There was absolutely nothing; he could
only listen, and he found in one brief
attempt to stop his ears that he must do
that.

"Goodness,” said Alice in a mocking
voice, "you seem to be at a distinct loss
for once; unusual, not, Paul?” And then,
receiving no answer, she went on, "Now
that I’m dead, I suppose you’ll want to
see Beatrice, won’t you? You have waited
quite a decent interval, at that.”

"Is there anything . . . ?” he man-
aged to ask, and then thought of how
ridiculous his position was — poisoning
her, and then asking if there was any-
thing he could do.

She laughed, having read his mind with
perfect ease, as he sensed immediately.
“I shouldn’t advise you to see Beatrice,”
she went on, and her voice seemed some-
how changed, hardened almost, "because
I shall consider it my duty to be there if
you do. And that would be rather in-
convenient, I’m afraid. You’d best be
rather careful all around, because I shall
manage to get through to you occasion-
ally. At least, until you come to me.
Whenever you see a white moth, think
of me, Paul.”

Then, abruptly, Paul Blake felt that
Alice had gone. He went forward hes-
itatingly. expecting every moment to hear
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542

WEIRD TALES

( Continued from preceding page)
her voice at his ear. But there was noth-
ing, and he slipped into his topcoat feel-
ing somewhat more at ease. An evening
at the club served to dispel his temporary
depression still more.

When, three days later, he went to see
Beatrice, he felt convinced that Alice was
securely and permanently dead, and he
looked upon the incident of her post-
mortem appearance as a severe attack of
nerves, or, at the least, a warning from
his conscience. He was inclined to accept
the latter, distasteful as it seemed, be-
cause his physician had told him there
was absolutely nothing the matter with
his nerves. Paul Blake looked forward
with genuine enthusiasm to an evening at
the opera with Beatrice.

C haliapin was in the midst of Mef-
istofeles’ O Night Draw Thy Cur-
tain, when Paul Blake became suddenly
conscious of a small white moth fluttering
about in his box. He looked at Beatrice;
she had not noticed it, at any rate, for
she was still absorbed in the opera. He
wondered whether he could kill it with-
out her seeing, and began to watch it
covertly, hoping it would come to rest
where he could strike at it. And this it
presently did. He fixed his eyes on it,
measuring its position, and then suddenly
swept his hand outward to catch and
crush it in his fingers. But the moth
eluded him, though he was sure he had
touched it at least, and worse, Beatrice
noticed his maneuver and turned.

"What is it?” she asked.

He looked at her foolishly. "I was try-
ing to catch that white moth, before it
could annoy you,” and he pointed to
where it was circling the fan in Beatrice’s
hand.

Beatrice looked at her fan, and back
at Paul Blake with the faintest trace of
annoyance on her features. "You’ll have

to do better than that, Paul; how could
a moth get in here?”

"Can’t you see it?” asked Paul, and he
smiled at her in order to hide the dismay
at the answer he foresaw he would get.

"Silly. Of course not. There’s nothing
there.”

But Paul Blake could see the moth as
clearly as anything else in his box, and
as he looked at it, he thought he heard
Alice laughing; since he did not want to
recognize the thought, he contented him-
self with believing that it was some one
on the stage, though the action at that
point was anything but a matter for
laughter.

After that, he did not go to see Bea-
trice for almost a week, and when he did,
he saw the white moth again. As he
looked at it, he fancied that it had grown
much larger. They were sitting in the
garden, and for a moment Paul Blake
wondered whether it would do any good
to go into the house. But he knew it
would not, and for the second time he
pointed out the moth to Beatrice.

"I think you’ve got a moth complex,”
she said. "Really, I can’t see it at all. Do
you really see it, or is it just a joke?”

And at that, Paul Blake felt for the
first time the irony of Alice’s appearance.
If he told Beatrice he really saw the moth,
she would begin to doubt his sanity, and
if he passed it off as a joke — well, it was
a mighty poor joke at best. In the end he
grinned rather stupidly, and the matter
was dropped. Paul Blake went home
early, and he noticed the white moth flut-
tering along before him until he reached
his door.

Next day, when he went to the tele-
phone to make his apologies to Beatrice
— for he felt that she deserved them — ■
there was the white moth, fluttering about
the instrument. As he came toward it,
the moth settled itself on the mouthpiece,
Paul Blake made a savage swipe at it,

WEIRD TALES

5.43

but either he had missed it completely, or
the moth had fluttered up and back down
again, for it was still on the mouthpiece
despite his attack. For a moment he stood
looking at it, and then he turned abrupt-
ly on his heel and left the room; he could
telephone as well some other time. As
he closed the door behind him, the sound
of Alice’s mocking laughter came to him
too distinctly for him to pass it off.

Two nights later, when he left the
house to call on Beatrice, the white moth,
now grown much larger, appeared with-
in a block of his door, and after a short
hesitation he turned back to the house,
called Beatrice and gave a sudden illness
as his excuse for not coming.

After that, he began to haunt the club.
He came to suffer from long spells of
melancholia, and fellow club members
one by one fell away from him. He no-
ticed their attitude, but there was nothing
he could do about it. Hemingway stuck
with him, and Dillon— and they’d stick
for a good long while yet. There was one
thing he had set his mind on: no one
should know about the white moth; he
would suffer in silence, no matter what
happened.

H emingway was with him when the
end came, and even he did not
recognize that anything had happened to
Paul Blake until the morning papers had
come in. He told it later at the club.

"If it hadn’t ended so tragically, the
thing would have been funny. We were
walking along the drive that night, talk-
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raining just a little, but not enough for
us to open cur umbrellas. Just as we came
out of the light of a street lamp, a rather
bedraggled-looking white moth came flut-
tering toward us from the darkness.

"Blake saw the moth, and since I was
talking to him at the time, I had my eyes
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WEIRD TALES

NEXT MONTH

Dead Man's
Belt

By HUGH B. CAVE

A n exceptionally powerful story
- is this grim tale of a cold-blooded
murder and the terrible retribution that
stalked relentlessly in its wake. It is a
narrative of the cruel and sordid exist-
ence of the dwellers on a city dump,
their loves and their lusts, their super-
stitions and their games, and the stark
tragedy of their lives.

I N this weird story, one of the most
unusual ever printed, Mr. Cave has
dipped his pen in the life-blood of his
characters and depicted them so vividly
that they seem to step out of the print-
ed page and grip your sympathies. This
absorbing, fascinating and dramatic
weird narrative will be published com-
plete in the .

May issue of

WEIRD TALES

On sale April 1st

To avoid missing your copy, clip and mail this
coupon today for SPECIAL SUBSCRIPTION
OFFER.

WEIKD TALES
840 H. Michjgran Aye.,

Chicago, til.

Enclosed find SI. 00 for which send me the next
five issues of WEIRD TALES to begin with the
May Issue (tl.75 in Canada). Spcolal offer void
unless iemittance is accompanied by coupon.

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( Continued from preceding page )
fixed on him. As he looked at die moth,
his jaw dropped, and he stood stock-still
as if waiting for the thing to pass. Then
he began to glare at it in the most un-
usual fashion, so that for a moment I
thought he’d gone suddenly mad. You
know, tlm happens somedmes. I put my
hand on his arm, but he shook it off.
Then he gave a sort of cry — it sounded,
you know, as if he were saying ’Alice’ —
too bad about his wife; I’ve always felt
diat her death was a pretty hard blow for
him — and then he aimed at the moth with
his umbrella. Of course, he missed it,
and it flew off into the darkness, and then,
to my amazement, he began to race along
after it, striking at it with his umbrella.
At first I thought of going after him, but
I remembered his condition and thought
it would be best if I left him alone.

"I feel rather bad now — ever since I
saw the papers that carried the story of
his drowning last night. When he raced
off like that, I’d forgotten all about the
river being right in his path. And I can’t
think why I didn’t remember that he
couldn’t swim a stroke."

Attention

Watch your local newspapers for
announcements of radio broadcasts of
stories from

WEIRD TALES

with prominent motion picture stars
playing the characters in these radio
dramas.

W. T.— 9